The Darkest Hour
by Ambrosia Farnese
Summary: Morgana performs a rite that puts all the land in danger, setting off a chain of events that none of them can foresee. (Based on the S4 episodes, 'The Darkest Hour' pts. 1 and 2.)
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: _Merlin _and its characters are not mine. No money is being made from this. I do this for the love of writing._

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_Author's Note: This is based primarily on the S4 two-part episode, "The Darkest Hour", though I have added to some scenes, excised others, and added parts that were on the DVD set as deleted scenes. My plan is to update this weekly, though it may not be exactly seven days. Please send me reviews, as I love to hear your thoughts._

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Prologue

The witch bowed her head against the wind as she picked her way across the stony land, heedless of the knights who followed her. They had been on her trail for most of the day and were now catching up. She kept moving forward; there was no reason to fear them.

"Stop!" Hooves clattered over loose rocks, slowing as they approached. The creak of shifting tack and the jingle of well-crafted chain mail betrayed their rank as knights, and only the knights of Camelot would put up such dogged pursuit. '_This is the moment, then' _she thought, _'Let it play out. Let it all be done with.' _The priestess stopped. Something like a smile flickered across her face. She bent to set the cart handles down, gently, so as not to disturb her passenger.

"Stay where you are!" The four knights swung off their horses, landing lightly on the cracked earth. Rocks crunched under their feet as they approached, and the wind blew the nose-crinkling scent of days-old sweat and horseflesh to her. "Where are you headed?"

The priestess stood, her straight back and the lock of dark hair that escaped her hood proved she was no crone. "The Seas of Merador," her melodic voice betrayed nothing but her youth.

"What's in the cart?" One of them asked, demanding an answer from her as if she were a common serving wench. She raised her head slowly, turning to face him. A satisfying mix of shock and fear showed in his eyes. "Lady Morgana!"

She spun about, raising a hand as though to shield her face from the sun. Her eyes glowed fiery gold as she sent the power of her magic surging at the knights, flinging them backward one by one with nothing more than the force of her will. She released the breath she had been holding, a shiver of pleasure racing down her spine. A dizzy elation at the ease of her victory brought a rare, spiteful smile to her face. "_The great knights of Camelot. So brave... So easily bested." _She waited to be sure they would not rise again, but there was no movement save for the fluttering of their cloaks in the wind. Two of the faces were familiar to her- Sir Leon, and the laughable Sir Elyan.

Morgana turned back to the cart. She pulled the blankets out of their careful arrangement and did her best to shield the opening from the wind. "Are you all right?" she asked, concern etching her face.

A wasted figure slowly turned its face toward the sky. "Yes, thank you, Sister. But we must hurry. Night is nearly upon us, and we still have far to go." Morgause stared up at her sister. Half of her face retained traces of the beauty that had enraptured kings, still held evidence of the cunning mind that had wreaked so much destruction on Camelot just a year past. The other half was ruined, swollen here and there and traced through with thickened veins. The glassy eye stared blindly out.

Morgana tucked a stray lock of hair behind her sister's ear before returning to hoist the cart handles up again. They did have a long way to go, still, to the Sea of Merador. And the Isle of the Blessed.


	2. Chapter 2

The first rays of dawn had yet to burn off either the forest mist or the night's chill, and though it was Samhain's Eve morn, the grove felt as though it were caught up in the first rush of spring. All the scene wanted was a nest of songbirds singing in the new day and the fresh buds of leaves on the branches of the ancient oak Merlin knelt under. Even the air felt young. He breathed out slowly and opened his eyes, blinking his vision back into focus as he finished his silent prayer and rummaged through his pack, eventually pulling out a flask of ale. He poured it over the tree's roots as he asked the gods for their blessings- and for their protection- in the coming winter months. A year of peace and relative quiet had not dulled his sense of watchfulness, but if the gods were willing to offer him a bit of help, he was willing to take it.

Merlin rested a hand on the trunk of the sacred oak, drawing a measure of strength from it and savoring the few stolen moments of freedom he had before duty called him back to the city and the festival preparations. He shook his head, thoughts turning dark. _Superstitious _and _heretical._ Those were the words that would be leveled at him should anyone not of the old ways see him kneeling in prayer under the ancient oak. An arrest would follow, and, if he were very lucky, a trial before an appointment with the headsman's axe. No one would pay attention to the fact that the ancient rites of Samhain were not so different from the new festivals.

'_Do not go down that road, Merlin,' _a voice like a whisper on the wind made the leaves shiver above him. But it was right. To start down the path of bitterness at the oppression of his beliefs would only send him down the same road as Morgana, and as powerful as her anger made her, Merlin wanted no part of it.

Banishing the dark thoughts, he rose and brushed himself off, gathering his pack and taking a final look around at the peaceful grove before heading into the forest proper in search of the mistletoe that was ostensibly the reason for his being out on this morning. Mistletoe, being a treatment for diseases of the heart, was best gathered around the time of Samhain. He grinned. Gaius was endlessly clever in his reasons for sending Merlin out into the forest on the holy days, as there was ever a need for some herb, some bit of soil, some piece of bark he needed for his remedies. As the physician's apprentice was wandering into the woods two or three times a week the rest of the year, no one commented on it.

A brief search had him scrabbling up a different oak tree, carefully slicing away a few precious leaves of the mistletoe and offering as payment three drops of his own blood. With closed eyes to hide the golden flash, Merlin directed enough power to heal his sliced thumb before wrapping the leaves and tucking them away in his pack. He hopped out of the tree and headed for the main road. At just under a league from the city gates, an easy jog would see him home shortly- just in time to get Arthur up and breakfasted, speech delivered, laundry collected, ceremonial weapons and armor cleaned, and the thousand other things that needed doing before the night's feast.

The sun had hardly risen above the trees when Merlin made it back to the castle. The guards waved him through, and a quick perusal of the lower town found Gaius on his morning rounds. "Gaius!" he called out, edging through the crowded morning market to the physician's side.

The old healer's greeting was a raised eyebrow and enough of a phlegmatic mood to quell a puppy's high spirits. "Well?" he managed to ask two questions with one word.

"All done," answered one question, '_Are you done with your rites?_' and, "I found three perfect leaves," was the second, '_Did you find the mistletoe I asked you for?'. _He handed the pack over.

"Good," again, one word to answer two statements. Gaius glanced toward the east where the sun started to peer over the edge of the city walls. "I don't imagine you'll have any time to finish a few things for me this morning?"

Merlin scoffed, "I can try, but it's a feast day. I'm hardly going to have time to eat or bathe before tonight."

"You must bathe at the very least," Gaius said, wrinkling his nose, "You smell of dirt and moldering leaves."

"I've smelled of worse. But I'll have to skip something you want me to do. Arthur won't ease up. Not today."

Gaius scowled without malice, "Fine then," he waved a hand to dismiss both Merlin and the hassle of negotiating his chores, "The caraway will wait another day. You can take care of it tomorrow. Now go on, if you're so terribly busy."

Merlin grinned broadly, the puppy-energy returning. "Thanks, Gaius. I'll see you, well, I'll see you sometime later." He waved as he fled through the crowded market, slicing through waves of people until the press eased near the citadel. He darted across the courtyard and bounded up the stairs, his long legs and slight frame proving to be a boon once more as he dodged around servants preparing for tonight's feast, skittering down to the depths of the castle into the kitchens to collect, of all things, a shirt.

The kitchens were not the ideal place to leave a pure white shirt, but the cook had been-reluctantly- willing to spare a spot for some boiling water to steam the worst wrinkles out of the fine linen. As he searched for the shirt, Merlin's eyes darted about at the largesse of festival food lying about. Tarts and breads and all sorts of roasted meats sat about in various states of preparedness. And he hadn't eaten yet that day. Surely one roll wouldn't be missed?

"What are _you_ doing in my kitchen?" The cook's question boomed out like an accusation.

Merlin pasted an innocent look on his face, folding his arm- hand, pastry, and all- behind his back, "The prince's shirt?" he asked, "Where...?"

The cook gestured deeper into the kitchen where a pot of boiling water bubbled away, the pristine white shirt hanging above it. Merlin dodged another servant on his way there, tucking the pastry into his pocket. The cook must have known he was on the lookout for more crumbs to pilfer. "And keep your filthy fingers off my food, do you understand?" She waved a long wooden spoon at him, managing to look both threatening and comical.

With a vague nod, Merlin spun around a table and grabbed the shirt, stopping abruptly when he felt something brush against his back. He followed the line upward to the grate in the ceiling where two familiar faces grinned down at him. Gwaine and Percival. Always famished, the two were undoubtedly fishing for roast chicken, and not harried servants. He could sympathize; a prince's manservant rarely had regular dining hours. Merlin hooked one of the chickens, mouthing, "Go, go go!" at them before the cook saw what he was up to. Being threatened with a wooden spoon was one thing, but the woman had a knife in her hand now and Merlin had to intention of testing her aim. Arthur threw enough things at him. No need for the cook to start doing the same.

Upstairs, the forest of people and preparations was no thinner. The bustle of the castle's regular morning goings-on failed to be lessened by the coming festival. The addition of an extra hundred faces putting up decorations and scrubbing the corners added to the chaos, leaving Merlin to work extra hard to dart through their comings and goings. One minor lapse of attention was all it took. He walked straight into a boy carrying a jug of dark wine, splashing its contents across the two of them, the floor- and across the front of Arthur's white shirt.

_No... _Merlin's face fell as he surveyed the destruction. True, it was only a shirt. And it was only one, but snowy white was not an easily attainable color. And the first of the Samhain rites was only a few hours away. It would take more time than that to re-wash, re-dry, and re-steam the shirt.

"You could try a bit of salt," a calm voice suggested. Lancelot stood behind him, a brace of swords over one shoulder, bemusement on his face at the sight of Merlin's distress.

A moment passed while Merlin contemplated borrowing one of the swords Lancelot carried, if only to throw himself on it. "Arthur is going to kill me."

"Let's see," Lancelot studied the stain for a moment, then shrugged and clapped him on the shoulder before continuing down the hall. "You've faced far worse, Merlin."

Knights, Merlin had noted many times before, were unhelpful. "He needs it for tonight."

"I'm sure a man of your talents can think of something,"

He glared at the knight as Lancelot walked away, then glanced around to ensure no one else was coming. No one was. With a whisper, Merlin sent a tiny wash of magic over the shirt, dissolving the stain and his problem in a moment.

Lancelot glanced back Merlin raised the newly whitened shirt for the knight to see. He responded by spreading his arms wide as though to say, '_well wasn't that something_?'

Merlin rolled his eyes and fled the scene, being more careful to dodge his fellow servants this time around. By now the rushing was unnecessary. He was already late. Arthur would begrudge him two extra minutes as much as one, if he was even awake to notice. Luck was with Merlin that day, though. Arthur was already awake, dressed, and pacing about with papers in hand, oblivious to his servant's arrival. The sight startled Merlin into stating the obvious. "You're dressed," It was hard to say whether it was a question or a statement of fact.

Arthur rolled his eyes, "Yes, Merlin, I'm not an idiot." The prince turned away, eyes still on the parchment in hand and unaware that his shirt had folded up on itself in the back

Merlin chuckled, "Are you sure about that?"

"Beg pardon?" Arthur looked up sharply, his expression irritated, though at the parchment and not at his servant. Yet. He stalked to the far side of the desk and sank down into the chair, grabbing the quill, and managing to make the gesture one of both determination and defeat.

"It's just that..." A vague gesture at his own back failed to alert Arthur to his clothing mishap. '_I suppose he'll just look like an idiot, then. Someday he'll realize that listening is a good idea,' _Merlin shook his head and laid the shirt on the bed. He pulled the scroll out of his pocket and cleared his throat.

"Merlin, I am trying to write a speech." Arthur did not look up. All his attention focused on the parchment and the paltry number of lines scratched onto its surface.

"Do you want help?"

He knew the answer before it came. "No."

"You won't want this, then?" Merlin held the scroll up like an anxious puppy that wanted to play, but was not quite willing to give up the stick. "I spent all night working on it." Arthur held out a hand, quickly skimming through it when Merlin handed the scroll over. "What do you think?"

"It needs a polish," Arthur re-rolled the scroll and tossed it back.

Gaius once told him that the reward for hard work was more hard work. _Indeed._ Merlin sighed, "I'll add it to the list."

The prince leaned back in his chair and twirled the quill between his fingers, relieved to be rid of the odious task of speechwriting. "Merlin, There aren't many servants who get the chance to write a prince's speech. Obviously, it would be too much to say 'Thank You'."

Obviously. Merlin graced the comment with a scowl, collected the last of the laundry and hurried out the door before Arthur could reward him with even more work The prince's laughter followed him out of the room.

* * *

Uther Pendragon had been a great king once. A fearsome warrior who had raised a kingdom up from its knees and won a war against a foe that no one should have been able to defeat. His name alone had inspired terror and the prospect of his riding over a ridge with a company of knights had been enough to keep border lords from rebelling on either side of the line.

Once.

How things had changed. Undone by the truth of Morgana's parentage, her sorcery, and her attempted coup, Uther was a different man. His mind wandered far afield these days and there was no question that he was unable to cope with the duties of kingship. Those responsibilities had fallen upon Arthur.

Gaius sighed and shut the door behind him quietly. He paused just inside the doorway and watched Guinevere drift about the room, adjusting things for Uther, whose hands trembled as he set his wine glass on the table. The plate of food there was untouched.

"You've not eaten, Sire. Sire?" She reached a hand towards the king's shoulder, hesitated, and dropped it to her side. Gaius cleared his throat to catch her attention and raised the vial of sleeping draught he held. Gwen shook her head at the sight of it. "It doesn't seem to make any difference," she said softly.

I am not sure it ever will, but at least it gives him peace," he replied.

Gwen looked back at Uther, a mixture of sadness and pity in her eyes. "It's been a year since Morgana betrayed him."

"His heart is broken, and his spirit gone," Gaius said in Uther's defense. For the young, who could so swiftly recover from heartbreak and tragedy, it was difficult to see their elders fail to do the same. He changed the subject, "Are you joining us for the feast tonight?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. I need to look after the king."

"You're very good to him, Gwen," Gaius smiled. Such a selfless young woman, was Guinevere, to care for the man who had condemned her father to death and nearly sent her to the pyre twice. She would make Arthur a brilliant queen one day.

"I don't do it for him. I do it for Arthur." Her smile was not for Uther or for Gaius. That faraway look and the light in her eyes were meant for the absent prince.

'_Yes,' _Gaius decided, '_She will be a queen worthy of legend. Someday'._ His eyes followed her as she swept out of the room. It seemed they were always banking on Someday. Perhaps one day, that Someday would come true, and wouldn't that be a sight to behold? He held back his mirth until he closed the chamber doors behind him again.

"Gaius!" A voice echoed down the hallway.

"Lancelot. How can I help you?"

"Sir Leon and Sir Elyan have returned with grave news, they say. Arthur has requested your presence in the council chambers."

"Was there any hint of what it was?"

Lancelot shook his head, "No, and it's to be a private audience, so I won't find out for some time."

"Oh," Gaius waved a hand dismissively, "I've no doubt that Merlin will tell you the news soon enough. The way he chatters, you'd think he had no idea how to keep a secret."

"I think he chatters so much people have stopped paying attention. That's the secret. He could say anything at all, and no one would notice."

Gaius chuckled, "You're probably right. But regardless of what you end up hearing or not, it's best you don't name your source. Merlin gets himself in enough trouble without our adding to it."

* * *

"... And the rumors that she's been spotted in the west, near the White Mountains? You can substantiate them?"

"The reports are true, sire," Leon nodded. Still covered in road dust and sweat, he and Elyan had come straight from the stables to bring Arthur their report. Given the shadows under their eyes and the grim looks on their faces, the news was not good. "We caught up to Morgana on the Plains of Denaria."

The prince looked up sharply, "Was there anyone with her?"

"There was someone," Elyan said hesitantly.

"Morgause?"

"We couldn't be sure. Neither of us," he glanced at Leon, "Could see who it was, but a handcart like the one she had is meant for passengers."

"Where was Morgana heading?" A new voice came out of a shadowed alcove, belonging to a dark-eyed man dressed in black. For mourning, Agravaine always said, and given how many members of his family he had outlived- including his sister, Arthur's mother, Ygraine- everyone was inclined to believe it. He had arrived some months before to advise Arthur in the affairs of the kingdom and in that time, the young prince had come to rely on his uncle's good council.

Leon ran a hand through his hair, sending up a puff of dust. "The Seas of Merador."

"The Isle of the Blessed," Gaius breathed, suddenly unsettled.

Agravaine was less bothered by the news than the healer. "I'll send out patrols at first light."

"Thank you, Agravaine," Arthur said.

Leon's fidgeting stilled, the air of one who has still more bad news to deliver settling upon him. There had been four knights in the patrol, not two. "Sire, you should know, her powers have grown. Sir Bertrand and Sir Montague are both dead"

Arthur seemed to deflate even more. Surely it was too bright a morning for such news? But tragedy would not wait on storms anymore than it would wait for a prince to make his decisions. "Keep me informed of any developments." The knights nodded a brief bow before exiting. Arthur watched them go, waited for the door to close, then abruptly turned to Agravaine, his expression full of unspoken emotion- anger, uncertainty, and, if one knew what to look for, dread. "For months, nothing. Why now?"

Agravaine shrugged, "We knew she couldn't stay hidden forever. Today, tomorrow? What does it matter?" He raised a placating hand, forestalling Arthur's sure protests. "You mustn't live in fear. Camelot is strong. If Morgana were to act, we'd be ready for her."

"You're right, of course," Arthur sighed, only partially mollified. He straightened his shoulders, chin up, his bearing reflecting a certainty he did not feel. For the good of his people, a prince must remain strong, even when a once-fading threat suddenly bloomed anew. "I don't know how I'd have got through these last few months without you. Thank you, uncle."

"I made a promise to your mother," Agravaine called before Arthur reached the door. Shadowed as he was in an alcove, the prince was hard-pressed to read his uncle's expression. "I'll always be there for you."

Arthur smiled in faint acknowledgment. Even across a distance of nearly thirty years, Agravaine still held the memory of Ygraine, his dead sister, close to his heart. Here, at least, the bonds of family held true. _If only my own sister were so loyal._

* * *

Perhaps the sun never shone over the Sea of Merador, or mayhap it was merely bad luck that a storm hung over the land and draped the shoreline in a clinging mist. A blank citadel rose from the dark waters, its towers and windows wiped away by the fog, changed into a menacing black shape on the horizon. Was it fear or anticipation that quickened Morgana's pulse as she looked across the sea?

She turned back to the cart where her sister struggled out of the nest of blankets, grasped her arms and levered Morgause to unsteady feet. "The Isle of the Blessed," the older woman breathed as she shambled toward the dock, eyes fixed on the shrouded tower floating above the dark waters. She shook her head when her foot touched wood, fishing a coin out for the bedraggled ferryman who waited. "You know where we wish to go," she told him. He nodded and offered a hand to help them settle into the little boat.

The journey across the water was swift. The ferryman said nothing, nor did Morgause, who curled up against Morgana and might have fallen asleep there. For her part, Morgana watched the island grow larger. There were places in the world where history lay heavily. The Isle of the Blessed was one of them. The air tasted of it, of the years it had endured and the magic it had overseen. Her mind's eye put the pieces together, repaired the ruined towers and the crumbling walls, returning the island to its former glory in her imagination.

"It was once a place of light," Morgause sighed, stirring at last when they reached the far shore. They made their careful way to a fallen gateway. "The final darkness fell when Nimueh was killed. She dwelled here until her end, though how she survived the Purge, I'll never know. She had such power," the broken priestess leaned against a fallen brickwork to catch her breath. _"_When I was first brought here, these hallways were more beautiful than any palace. And they were teeming with women. Women like you and I, priestesses of the Old Religion. The air was perfumed with magic. You could smell it as you approached across the lake. This whole island was pulsing with the possibility of life," she smiled sweetly, seeing her own memory of the island as it had been. She looked up at Morgana, her gaze turning fervent, "And it can be like that again. As the last of our kind, it is up to you to right wrongs done by Uther Pendragon. Come! Samhain is almost upon us. We must hurry. Soon, the veil between the two worlds will be at its thinnest."

They made their careful way through the ruins as twilight blurred into night, Morgause pressing ever on until they reached a wide courtyard. A single stone altar was the only thing left in the space. Morgana blanched when saw it, her steps faltering. Her sister looked up at her, "Samhain is almost upon us. We must hurry."

Faced with the reality of what they were about to do, Morgana's resolve failed her. "I can't do this," she whimpered. It was too much to ask of her, this rite, even if it was meant to devastate the Pendragons and all they stood for.

"Sister, remember what I've told you. It is the only way. What you are about to do will affect everyone. Even you. And more importantly, it will bring our enemies to their knees. You must be strong. Remember that." Morgause pressed a slender, finely crafted dagger into Morgana's shaking hands, her own grip solid as the stones around them. "Do not be scared. I am not long for this world. There's nothing left for me here now," she rasped as she pulled herself onto the stone bier, calmly lying down as though preparing for a night's rest. Perhaps that was how it seemed after living so long in such pain. "Please, sister. Let my parting be my final gift to you," Morgause's smile held the only touch of sweetness she had ever allowed herself to show- only to her sister, and only on her deathbed.

Morgana could not stop the tears rolling down her cheeks. For a moment, with that tiny smile and the peaceful light that radiated from her good eye, Morgause had regained her lost beauty. For a moment, she shone like the priestess she had been, like the women who had come before them on the Isle of the Blessed before the purge. Before Uther and his armies had burned the temple and its sacred groves, slaughtering hundreds of innocents who had done him no wrong. '_It will only be a moment. A quick thrust and her long work will be done. She will be with our sisters who have gone before us. She will be at peace, and the burden will be mine alone.'_

Her pulse quickened. The moment rushed closer. She raised the dagger high and spoke the words of the spell that would end her sister's life as it gave birth to a new world. Beautiful words. As sweet as honey wine and a thousand times as intoxicating, the magic, the power, shivering up her spine like a plume of cold fire spreading outward to her fingers, which spasmed, gripping the haft of the blade even tighter as she drove the blade home into her sister's heart. An ecstatic gasp from Morgause turned into a dying rattle, the sound thunderous against the silence, growing louder and louder until the force of it threw Morgana to the cold ground. As quickly as it had come, the power fled, leaving the lone priestess empty, a spent shell on the lonely stones.

* * *

"Samhain," Arthur's voice rang out through the festival hall bringing the din of the feast to an abrupt halt. Even the servants paused in their duties to watch. "It is the time of year when we feel closest to the spirits of our ancestors. It is a time to remember those we've lost, and celebrate their passing," a faint smile tugged at Merlin's lips as memories of an offering of ale surfaced, along with those of his own lost loved ones, Balinor and Freya. His father and his lover, both of them gone but never forgotten. And now? A bright sun, fond memories, and Arthur was using the words Merlin had written. It had been a good day. "To the King," Arthur raised his chalice in honor of Uther.

The assembly raised their cups in answer, responding as one, "To the king."

Then time... slowed.

Sound warped, stretching out until the noise of the hall dissolved into howls like winter winds. The voices around him seemed to come from far away, as did the clatter of toasting goblets. Wine splashed out of goblets, falling like transient rubies paused in mid-air. The stretching sound faded, leaving behind only a deep rushing in his ears, slowing until it sounded weirdly like his own heartbeat. Then it, too, went still.

Something in the fabric of the world tore. He heard it, felt it, like a peal of thunder bursting within and from all around, rattling his bones and stealing the air from his chest, seizing his heart and rabbiting him into stillness while a blast of frozen fire erupted before him, too bright to look at and too bright to look away from until the flame died away, leaving a watery blue glow in its wake. An ancient woman cloaked in tattered black stood tall and silent, a gnarled blackthorn staff in hand. The scent of winter, stone, and the sick-sweet stench of rotting things clung to her like cobwebs. Her gaze was keen as brittle steel. Her voice emerged as a prolonged hiss. "Emrys..."

In childhood, he had heard whisperings such as this, sighs breathing out of the caves near Ealdor, the echoes of spirits from the depths of the world rising from the dark to impart their secret gibberish. But those voices never took form and looked him in the eye. Never breathed his name as if it were both curse and prayer, "_Emrys_..." Icy wind swirled around him, knifing through his body, stealing his breath away as though he were caught out in a blizzard. The cold pinned him in place, felt like it was turning every inch of his body to snow and ice and whipping it away into the darkness. _'Am I dying?_' he wanted to ask her, but there was no air left in his lungs to push the question out. A noise like a cracking bell rang out and time writhed again, speeding to its normal pace. The wind turned hot as it flowed around him. He heard the crack of flesh hitting stone and wondered, as he stared upward, who had fallen. Faces appeared above him. He realized he was the clumsy one on the floor- how had that happened? Arthur would surely mock his clumsiness, but later. Now, there was lovely warmth in the stone floor at his back and an even warmer hand on his brow. All things blurred, fell silent and still until there was only the darkness, the cold, and the whispering voice.

_"Emrys..."_


	3. Chapter 3

She woke to the touch of hand caressing her face, tracing the line of her cheek and down her jaw. A loving touch, had it not been cold as winter's first snow. Morgana's eyes fluttered open, darting about to find the one who woke her. No one was there. Slowly, she pushed herself up, her gaze first going to the altar where Morgause. . . It was empty. No trace of her sister's body remained. And beyond that- a rippling void wavered like gauze curtains in a breeze. But there was no breeze, no wind, no breath of life to move the torn edges of the veil between the worlds. '_Sweet Mother', _Morgana's breath caught in her throat at the sight, '_We did it'._

A rushing of air over raven's wings raced past and she finally saw the cloaked figure standing before the void. "Who are you?"

"I am the Cailleach. The gatekeeper to the spirit world. You have torn the veil between the worlds," the voice was stronger, clearer than such a hag's had a right to be. A distant wailing rose around them, screams growing, score upon score, multiplying into a hideous chorus. The apparition almost smiled at the fear growing in Morgana's eyes. "The Dorocha. They are voices of the dead, my child. And like the dead, they are numberless," The Cailleach declared. Eyes wide, Morgana's gaze flickered around the ruined temple, the weight of her actions settling heavily upon her. The Cailleach did not miss the realization, "You are right to be afraid, Morgana. Your enemies will rue this day and all the destruction that it brings. But you must beware. Tearing the veil between the worlds has created a new world. And you will not walk through it alone. The one they call Emrys will walk in your shadow. He is your destiny, and he is your doom."

Dizziness washed over her. She pressed her aching head against the cold stone floor. The chill of it settled her feverish brow. "Where will I find. . .him. . .?" Morgana sat up, but the Cailleach had gone, leaving behind the torn veil and the unnumbered spirits. Fear overcame triumph and curiosity. Morgana fled, and would swear until the end of her days that among the despairing screams of the faceless dead, her sister's wordless cry was the loudest of all.

* * *

_"_To the King!" the knights called out as one in answer to Arthur's toast. A hush fell over the room as the bells rang. Chatter erupted again when the last peal sounded as the people wished each other well in the new year. "Hey!" Gwaine laughingly protested at the wine Percival managed to spill on him in the raucous toast. Lancelot grinned and took a breath to utter some joke at their expense, but the crash of metal hitting the stone floor distracted him. Half the room looked up, most of them ready to make some witticism at a servant's clumsiness. Lancelot was not among the jesters; his humor died at the sight of Merlin gone deathly pale, his eyes rolling up before he fell bonelessly to the floor.

"Merlin!" A chair went flying as Lancelot dashed over to the fallen servant in time to see his eyes close. He pressed a hand to Merlin's throat and breathed a sigh of relief at the rapid beat there. Gaius knelt beside him, his own hand at Merlin's forehead as the sorcerer shivered. He glanced at the healer, nodding at the unspoken question in the old healer's eyes and gently hoisted Merlin over a shoulder.

He was barely winded by the effort of climbing the long flights of stairs when they burst into Gaius's chambers, Merlin hanging limp over the knight's broad shoulders. Violent shivers racked his too-thin frame, his skin as cold as if he had been packed away in a snowdrift and left to await the spring thaw. He hardly stirred when Lancelot laid him down on the narrow bed. "What happened?"

"I don't know" Gaius answered, "I've never felt anyone so cold before." New worry lines creased the old healer's face as he ticked through the list of illnesses that could come upon a person so suddenly, the lines deepening as the list grew shorter.

"Will he be all right?"

"I'll need hawthorn to increase the blood flow," Lancelot nearly knocked another chair over in his haste, belatedly realizing that he had no idea where in healer's chamber he would find hawthorn. But no matter. If he could fight a griffin, he could find a simple bottle. "And blankets. Lots of blankets," Gaius called out after him. Those would be easy enough to find.

The search for the hawthorn ended quickly, the bottles being in a semblance of order. A jug of water and a clay mug finished out the ingredients list, whether Gaius needed them or not. Lancelot tucked the breakables gently under an arm and yanked the bedding off the healer's bed, dumping pillows on the floor and pulling the whole thing askew when a corner failed to peel away from the frame at the first tug.

"Easy, now," Gaius chided, "I have enough to worry about now without you cracking your head open on the floor. Here," he took the cup and bottles and popped the corks free, measuring their contents into the cup with unmeasured precision, swirling the hawthorn round and round in the cup until he deemed it fully mixed while Lancelot undid the straps on Merlin's boots and tossed them aside before spreading the blankets over the still-shivering sorcerer. "Lift his head," Gaius said, "Else he might choke."

Merlin was feather-light in Lancelot's arms, his head lolling to the side until the knight caught it in the crook of his elbow. Together they trickled the concoction down Merlin's throat. "Gaius," Lancelot looked up after a long moment, "I'm no healer, but I've never heard of an illness that strikes so quickly. I spoke with him just before the feast- during it, even- and he was fine."

The old healer's eyes darkened. "You are right. I know of no illness that presents itself like this. The only conclusion I can find is that something has happened in the magical world. At the stroke of midnight on Samhain's eve? I dread to think what that might have been. There are many rites that can only be performed on this night, and few of them are good."

"Do you know what it might have been?" Lancelot asked. The realm of magic being foreign to him, he had no idea what Gaius might know.

"You overestimate my abilities," A faint smile crossed the healer's face for the first time since Merlin's collapse, "I know about many rites, but I could not tell you which one had been done unless I was there to witness it. Merlin, though," he trailed off, resting a hand on his forehead and, satisfied by what he felt, smoothed a wrinkle out of the blanket. "Merlin is the most gifted sorcerer I have ever met," the words came out barely above a whisper, as though Gaius were worried that unfriendly ears might overhear. "He has great strength, but it makes him vulnerable to the effects of powerful rites."

"I don't understand."

Gaius smiled again, reverting from the role of healer to that of the teacher, "Think of a still pool where a toy boat floats near the edge. Now imagine that someone has thrown a large stone into that pool. Ripples spread out," his hand mimicked the up and down motion of the imaginary water, "Until they reach the boat and cause it to move with the water. In a deep enough pool, with strong enough waves, the boat could be tipped over."

Understanding flashed into Lancelot's eyes. "Then someone performed such a powerful ritual that its effects spread this far and hurt Merlin?"

"That seems the most likely answer," Gaius said, "And I fear to imagine what sort of rite could do this to him." They fell silent, watching Merlin sleep. His color was returning, and he had stopped shivering. Gaius stood finally, "I'm afraid I have much reading to do before morning. Will you stay with him until I'm certain he is out of danger?"

"Of course." Other men might be put out by the idea of staying at a sickbed through the long night, nursemaid not being a task most knights would choose, but Lancelot owed Merlin too much to say no. Staying by his side was the least he could do.

"I imagine he'll sleep the rest of the night, but call me if anything changes. And," Gaius turned back, "If anyone asks what happened, tainted food is as good an explanation as any. At the very least, he'll finally get a day off." Lancelot gave the old healer an affirming nod before he disappeared into the other room, leaving the door half shut behind him.

Sighing, Lancelot dragged the chair to the bedside, undoing the clasp of his cloak, draping it and his gloves over the back of it before beginning the struggle to relieve himself of the chain mail. Why they had to wear it for formal occasions was beyond him, but here in the quiet of the night, he surely would not need it. When he had finally shucked it off, he laid it across the grain barrel and picked up a random book from the table, settling into the chair for the night's vigil. "_The Leech book of Blaise of Carmarthen," _he read, grinning, "I don't think I'll understand a single thing that's written in here. Do you?" he asked Merlin's sleeping form. There was no answer save for the deep, even breathing of healing sleep. Lancelot tugged the blankets up to Merlin's chin and smoothed them back out again before settling back into the chair. He read without interruption until the descriptions of Balm and Bay Leaves melded together in his head just before the words did the same and he finally drifted into a sleep only slightly less restful than that of his charge.

* * *

"Lancelot?" Arthur's voice startled Lancelot awake. "How is he?"

"Hm? Umm... Better now, I think," he shook his head, blinking the prince into focus and clearing his throat to chase the gravel away. "He was chill to the touch when we brought him in, but he seemed feverish later. Gaius suspects it was something he ate, said he'd probably be back on his feet in a day or so." The lie dropped easily from Lancelot's lips. He had been raised to always tell the truth, but at this moment, the truth would do far too much harm. Surely tainted food was a more rational explanation for Merlin's collapse than some ethereal catastrophe.

Arthur nodded thoughtfully, his gaze growing distant as he spun the signet ring of Camelot round and round on his finger. He only did that, Lancelot knew, when he was upset. "Do you need someone to turn down your blankets for you?" he jested softly.

The prince looked at him, startled, then smirked. "I think I can manage to make it to my own bed by myself. Just this once." He turned to leave, then paused and turned back. "Inform me if anything changes," he nodded toward the sleeping Merlin. "And Lancelot," he paused again, "Thank you." There was an empty space then as though Arthur intended to say more but could not find the words to finish it.

"You're welcome, sire," Lancelot did not need to hear to end of it to know what he meant. The answer was obvious.

* * *

It was still dark when Gaius heard Merlin stirring. He checked the kettle over the fire and set about preparing herbs for a tisane, finishing in time to see Merlin emerge from his room with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes were haunted, as though a chill had gone through him and settled in his soul. Gaius motioned for him to sit down near the fire while he filtered hot water through the ground up leaves, pressing the warming concoction into Merlin's hands with a quiet 'Drink this'. He settled his old bones onto the bench beside the younger man. "What happened last night?" he asked softly.

Merlin's fingers tightened around the mug. His mouth opened but no words came out. He tried again. "There was. . . Time. . . Everything seemed to. . . it all just slowed. I've seen time slow before, but this. . . It was as if I stepped between two moments and couldn't go on. Then there was a light. It was so bright, but I couldn't look away." He shivered again and brought the mug to his lips, though it seemed he wanted the warmth of it more than the brew itself. "And there was a woman standing there. . . An ancient woman, dressed all in black, with a staff in her hand. When she spoke, her voice. . . it was as though it came from the depths of the earth. And her eyes. . . they were so sad. There was so much pain in them. Who is she?" Merlin finally looked up at Gaius, desperate to understand.

Fear's chill fingers wrapped around his heart. He had never seen the woman himself, but had heard her described many times. "The Cailleach. The gatekeeper to the spirit world."

"Why was she there?"

'_Why indeed?' _Gaius searched his memory for the rituals that would summon the Cailleach. Only one came to mind. He fought not to shudder at the thought._ "_It was on the stroke of midnight, on Samhain's eve, the very moment when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest. It cannot be a coincidence."

"Why was I the only one the see her?"

"You have great power, Merlin. For someone so gifted, such visions are common," Gaius said, hoping it was merely a vision.

Merlin shook his head. "You don't understand. It wasn't a vision. She knew who I was. She called me Emrys." Gaius breathed in sharply and turned away. "What is it? What does it mean?"

"I'm not sure," he lied, "But if someone has torn the veil between the worlds, then god help us." Gaius offered him a smile that was well south of reassuring before taking the cooling mug from Merlin and fussing with the young man's blanket. "And if that has truly happened, there is little we can do about it for the moment. Right now, you need rest, Merlin, so back to bed with you. Arthur will survive without you for a day."

Merlin moved to protest, but stopped at the stern look the old healer gave him. "All right. But wake me if anything happens. Anything at all."

"I will," Gaius promised. Merlin shambled back up to his room, and after a moment of shuffling about the healer heard him settle back into bed. He waited until there was no more sound from the boy before all but collapsing on the bench to stare dumbly into the fire. _'Emrys? Can it truly be?_

Emrys.

Gaius had heard the name since his childhood among the priestesses of the Isle of the Blessed. He was meant to be the most powerful sorcerer who had and who ever would live, who would bring about a new age of magic, and usher in the Golden Age of Albion. Some had argued that the prophecies were unclear, that he had already come and gone in a bygone age, while others were sure that Emrys simply had not arrived yet, that he might never arrive. Ancient prophecies never turned out the way one thought they would, their meanings twisted through the years, translated and mistranslated by those whose desires simply did not align with what the oracles had declared decades and centuries before.

After the purge, all the arguments had seemed moot. How could Emrys appear when there were so few left with the knowledge and abilities to do teach him? Or was that the point? Though their frames might rest on the foundations of ancient traditions, new ways did not last if the old ways remained strong. '_You are a question without an answer_,' he had told Merlin upon their meeting those years ago. No sorcerer was simply born with gifts like his, could move objects with his mind before he could talk, could learn such powerful spells with such ease. Gaius's shoulders sagged and he covered his eyes. How long had he wondered at the riddle of Merlin's existence? Now he had the answer. It was- as the solution to any riddle was- terribly simple. Merlin was Emrys, born out of the darkness of the Great Purge, thrown by fate into the midst of a kingdom that had teetered at the brink of war for years, and meant to protect Arthur from his own half-sister. All this with only a foolish old healer to guide him. Somewhere, the gods were laughing at Gaius.

Sighing, he lowered his hands and gazed out the window where the first light of dawn peeked through the clouds. How would he continue, with this new knowledge? That answer was plain enough. One step at a time, as ever he had done before.

* * *

_'It must be morning by now.' _The girl shivered as she huddled in a corner of the dark cellar under her family's home. Her father told her, after the attack began, that he would send her mother and sister down when he found them. But they never came. They had left her alone to wait and in all the hours since, there had been no light, no sound, no comforting arms to assure her the danger had passed.

She finally worked up the courage to ascend the ladder. Its creaky complaints were loud as screams and yet did little to drown out her own thundering heartbeat as she pushed the trapdoor open just far enough to see sunlight splashing across the floor. "Papa?" Her voice was too small to carry far. She raised the door higher to look about and choked on a scream.

Once, when she was a little girl, old Tom Miller had wandered into a blizzard during a fever-borne delirium. The elders found him just before the spring thaw, half-buried in a snowdrift and frozen solid. His skin had turned a mottled white and blue with black spots on his nose and cheeks, a soft rime of frost caught up in his salt and pepper beard, and a look of horror in the cloudy eyes. '_Did the faeries come to take him away under the hill?_' she had asked her mother, earning a hissing shush and a swat on the rear. The elders burned the body that night, sending prayers up with the smoke that his soul would find safe passage to the land of the dead and not haunt the village.

Thom had died years ago, but she never forgot his blue and black skin or his ice-clouded eyes. Her father's face looked just the same now, though in the sunlight the frost was melting, dripping down his face like tears. She pulled herself the rest of the way out of the cellar, keeping her feet just long enough to trip over another body. Her mother, and cradled in those frozen arms was her little sister, the child's fine blonde hair soaked by melting ice. The girl scuttled away and fell to her knees again, scraping her hands on the hard packed earth as she threw up the meager remnants of her last meal. The scouring taste of bile made her eyes water, blurring her vision so the village around her seemed less real. It was for the best. If she could see to look into the dead eyes of everyone she had ever known the scene might have driven her mad.

Instead, as the sun began its descent into the west, she ran, racing the nightfall to Camelot and fleeing faceless creatures the next sunset would surely bring.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunlight and noise woke him. It was not as though Arthur was upset that he had been allowed to sleep long past dawn. Far from it. It was the manner in which Merlin chose to wake him- with a slammed door, the discordant clatter of crockery roughly set on the table, and the window frame being thrown open. At least the birds that sang outside were happy to be awake. "Merlin..." Arthur grumbled. Uselessly, as the racket continued. "Merlin!" his voice rose despite the pillow he plopped across his face. He finally poked his head out from the pillow and blankets to cast a bleary scowl at his noisy servant, "Merlin!"

"What?"

There was a loud banging. '_Apparently he fell over and broke his ears.' _He sat up, ready to give the younger man an earful. "Merlin!

"That's not me," Merlin said, his gaze twitching toward the chamber door, which resumed its banging. Arthur squinted at the door, realizing he really could not blame Merlin for that particular sound. He sucked in a breath to yell at whoever was doing the knocking.

The door opened without his bidding, though, revealing Sir Leon. There was only the hint of an apology in his eyes and more of unease in his bearing. "Excuse me, sire. You're needed in the council chambers. There's a matter of some urgency." His tone was serious enough that Arthur forgot his ire.

"What's happened?"

"I'm not sure, sire. A girl came in from an outlying village. Something has put the fear of god into her so badly she can hardly speak. Gaius and the council are with her now."

Arthur rolled out of bed. Merlin was already pulling the proper clothes from the wardrobe. Arthur tossed them on without a second thought and ran a comb through his hair before shrugging into the chain mail shirt that had turned into more of a uniform than the protective garb it was meant to be. He cast a longing glance at the tray of sausage and buttered bread Merlin had brought in, but elected to leave it behind. Breakfast and a bath would have to wait until the kingdom's business was complete.

When they reached the council chambers, Arthur did not see the girl at first. She was a tiny bird of a half-grown child among the knights, made smaller by her hunched shoulders and choked sobs. Gaius stood close by, a comforting hand on her shoulder to remind her that she was not alone. The knights parted as Arthur walked in. "What's happened?"

Agravaine spoke up first, "Her village was attacked."

"By whom?"

Agravaine shrugged, "Not entirely clear, sir."

Arthur grimaced at their non-answers and moved to the girl, stooping to look her in the eye and tried to think unthreatening thoughts. She looked fragile already with her pale face and dark smudges of exhaustion under gray eyes. "What's your name?"

The girl finally looked up, her bloodshot eyes widening at the sight of Prince Arthur staring her in the face. Something in his countenance, though, calmed her enough to restore her voice. "Drea."

"Drea. I'm Arthur," his smile was warm, if small, "Don't be frightened. Tell me what happened."

She stammered at first, his question calling up visions she would rather forget. . "My mother, my father, my little sister, they're..." She choked back more sobs.

"It's all right," Arthur said and placed a comforting hand on her bird-thin shoulder, speaking softly as though to a frightened animal- the same way Merlin spoke to his patients. Never let it be said Arthur had learned nothing from his servant. "Someone attacked them. Who?"

"It's was no one," she breathed, "Just shapes."

"You didn't see their faces?"

Drea shook her head. "They had no faces. I... I keep telling you. They were there, and they weren't there. They moved so quickly. It was as if they weren't real." Her eyes unfocused, looking backward into memory. "But they must have been. I could hear the people screaming. And then... silence..." her voice broke, "They were all... dead."

He would get little else from the girl. She was brink of collapse already, and she was crying. Heaven help the prince who could resist helping a crying girl. "Thank you," he said softly before gesturing for Gaius to see to her. "Where is this village?"

"It's to the east of the White Mountains," Agravaine offered, "No more than half a day's hard ride."

"Ready the men," Arthur ordered Merlin before sweeping out of the chamber to seek out a map to find the girl's village and those who dared to attack his people.

* * *

Night came early this far into autumn, but Merlin knew the lateness of the hour could not explain the silence that lay about Drea's village when the company approached. They did not attempt to be quiet yet no watchmen asked them their business, and no laughter came from the roadside inn. There were no lights shining from the windows of the houses. He knew from living in Ealdor that even in the dead of winter, smoke would be rising from the chimneys or a dog would bark at a stranger's approach. Here there was none of that. Just a too-still village and the feeling that something terrible had happened.

"It's too quiet," Arthur said. The silence had unsettled him, too, though he tried to mask it. He hopped out of the saddle and looped his horse's reins around a hitching post, motioning for the others to do the same. The company slipped silently through the failing light in pairs. The soft clinking of their armor was the only sound to break the quiet until an old door creaked on rusting hinges, pushed out of the way by a thin goat that ran away when it saw them. Merlin let out the breath he had been holding since the door first shifted. Just a goat. But there should have been more animals at the least. This holding was no smaller than Ealdor, and no poorer, and there they had had a small herd of cattle, a couple of plow horses, chickens, and enough dogs and cats to keep the vermin away. The people here would have needed more than one goat to sustain them. '_Did bandits drive away the people and then take the animals?' _he wondered, knowing it was the wrong answer as soon as the thought entered his mind.

There was a loud crunch. The knights spun as one, bringing steel to bear on whatever threat that had suddenly appeared.

Gwaine's eyes widened at the sight. "Sorry," he held up an apple in surrender and had the good grace too look shame-faced for startling them all. Arthur gave him an exasperated glare before gesturing for the rest of them to continue searching the town. While they wound their way through the villages few streets and between the houses and outbuildings, they found not a trace of the people who lived there.

Until Elyan called out to them from a darkened house. "Here!"

None of them was ready for what they saw. An entire family, from elders to little children, huddled in a corner and all of them were dead, their eyes staring and full of terror. Layers of half-melted frost covered their faces. As carefully as the knights looked, there was no sign or track to show what had killed the family.

There was a flash outside the window. They all turned to look, but it was gone. "You saw it?" Arthur asked. There were nods all around, but whatever had been out there did not reappear. If anything, the darkness deepened.

"We are literally chasing shadows," Gwaine attempted a joke, but the tremor in his voice betrayed his nerves.

"Come on," Arthur said. He grabbed an armful of torches on his way out and the company made quick work of lighting them before spreading out to find the rest of the villagers.

Merlin followed more slowly than the others did. The rest of them might be afraid of what lingered in the dark, but he had a distinct advantage. There was only one creature he had encountered that could not be defeated with magic alone- the great dragon, Kilgarrah- but the Dragonlord's powers he had inherited from his father had taken care of that. What else was there in the world that he could not handle on his own? Never mind the screams he had been hearing, however faintly, in his mind since morning.

He padded into a barn where it seemed likely people might have gone to hide. The door creaked shut behind him, the sound of it raising hairs on the back of his neck while shadows danced around him. Something rustled along the far wall and fell silent again. Merlin walked toward the noise, one hand raised and a spell ready on the tip of his tongue to defend himself against whatever lurked in the shadows. Another step and more rustling.

Something flew at him in a shower of noise and... Feathers?

Merlin hopped back a pace, the breath he had drawn in for the spell turned into a soft laugh. Merlin Emrys. The great sorcerer of his time. Undone by a chicken. _'I'm glad no one else was here to see that. I'd have never heard the end of it.'_ He retreated toward the door, happy to leave the bird in peace. Unless poultry was the dire new threat, Camelot was safe from whatever lurked in this particular barn.

A familiar scream sounded from outside. Merlin darted outside to find its source, pausing in the dark stable yard to summon a bit of light. "_L__éoht," _he whispered, and a globe of pale blue light appeared in his outstretched palm. It brightened the yard for a few yards though there was little enough for him to see. A weathered fence, some hay bales, and a pitchfork resting against the barn. He scowled at it then at the light that, for no reason, began to die in his hand. "_L__éoht__," _ordered the light back to being. It resisted his call and darkness fell again.

Cold fear grew in his gut. To call light was simple enough- child's play, really- but nothing here should have been able to banish it so quickly. Merlin's gaze darted about, searching the night for anything to explain why the screams in his mind had suddenly become real, their source unseen, and apparently able to unravel magic- his only defense.

A small cloud moved against the blackness, a mutable _thing_ that coalesced into the suggestion of a skull, its mouth open in an anguished scream. Merlin cried out, not caring who heard his spell. It was useless, anyway. The thing kept coming at him, screeching as it came and driving such coldness into him that he could not breathe. It dove toward him and all he could feel was his smallness and his helplessness.

"Merlin! " A strong arm shoved him out of the thing's way, nearly knocking him to the ground. The torch Lancelot waved hissed when the spirit burst around it, its light wavering for a moment before it sputtered back to life. Lancelot spun around, looking for the vanished spirit before his gaze locked on Merlin. "What happened?"

Merlin shivered, from the cold and partly from a rare surge of fear. "My magic. I couldn't use it," he whispered, though it was not wariness that drove his quiet.

"There's something out there!" Lancelot called out to the others as they rushed over, both his eyes and Merlin's on the sky, searching for anymore of the creatures that might rush at them.

"You saw it?" Arthur was the first to arrive, though the others were not far behind.

"When it saw the light, it fled," Lancelot said.

"Let's get the horses," said Gwaine, who looked happy enough to have an enemy to fight instead of shadows to chase.

Merlin bit back his own fears. "It's not something you can chase, or something you can kill," he said softly. The knights were brave, but none of them was a match for these spirits, whatever they were. Pursuing them further would only lead to their deaths; of that much he was sure.

"We need to get out of here." Arthur took Merlin's arm, in part to steer him toward the horses, and in part to reassure him. So it felt, anyway, and Merlin was happy to soak in the warmth, even if he was only imaging it. He would take whatever comfort was given if it bolstered his failing spirits against the creatures that still screamed in the darkness.

* * *

No one noticed his arrival. Merlin watched the guards and healers rush about, bringing in the sheet-covered dead to add to the long rows of corpses that already lined the room. Only Gaius moved slowly, closing staring eyes and making note of names to inform the families. Merlin wanted to call out to him, wanted Gaius to tell him it would be all right, but he knew it would not be. Once again, his own failures hurt the innocents around him. If he had helped Morgana more than he had, if he had told her the truth about his own magic, if he had let her die that night... They were constantly circling each other, he and Morgana. Light and Darkness, fire and ice, and while the toll of deaths weighed more on her side, Merlin was not without his own sins. No matter the count, dead was dead, whether from a dragon's fire or a spirit's touch. Now, as then, he was at a loss to stop the darkness.

"Gaius," Merlin finally found his voice.

The physician did not notice at first, too busy tending to the fallen to notice a single frightened servant. Something finally caught his attention, though, for he looked up at last. "Merlin! You saw them? Here, help me," Gaius did not wait for Merlin's answer. Another few bodies were brought in then and he discovered that he was running out of supplies. "Get me some more sheets," he said. Several moments passed before he realized that Merlin had not moved at all, was simply staring at the rows of the dead. "Merlin?"

Merlin swallowed his fear enough to answer. "My magic is useless against them. I've tried," he said, his eyes wide, "I have never felt so powerless... Something deep inside, and when it came for me I felt this... emptiness. I couldn't breathe." It took the rest of his courage to admit the last, "I'm scared."

"Merlin..." For once, the healer was at a loss for words. "It's all right. It's not your fault," he finally said.

'_The evil that follows is of your doing and yours alone,' _Kilgarrah's words echoed back through his memory. Of all the things the dragon had foreseen, had he known this was coming? "It is my fault," he whispered, the emptiness of earlier rushed back full force as all the terrible things that had happened since the night he had rashly commanded Kilgarrah to give him the healing spell. '_I should have let Morgana die that night. So many lives would have been spared if I had.' _There was so much blood on his hands. Could he really claim to be any better than Morgana? At least she made no secret of her crimes.

A pair of hands clasped his shoulders, startling him out of his dark reverie. "Merlin, look at me." Gaius waited until the sorcerer finally did as he was told. "This is not your fault. Morgana made her own choices, walked her own path. The only one to blame for this is her."

Merlin shook his head, his gaze drawn back to the rows of covered figures. "I've made so many mistakes, Gaius. If I had told Morgana the truth about myself, or..." he trailed off and looked back at the physician. "I helped push her down this path, Gaius. I am who I am because I had you to guide me, but she had no one. No one, until Morgause came along and twisted her all up inside," he shook his head and brushed at his eyes. "She could have been such a light for our kind, and I helped push her into the darkness."

"Merlin-" Gaius was cut off by the sound of a door opening.

"Gaius? Arthur wants to see you in the council chambers. You, too, Merlin," Leon appeared out of the shadows.

"Thank you, Leon. We'll be there in a moment," the old healer said, giving the knight a reassuring smile. Leon nodded and retreated, the door closing softly behind him. "Merlin, the only one responsible for Morgana's actions is Morgana. What is past is done, and it cannot be changed, and while I know you feel like your actions led to this, in the end only Morgana is to blame. All we can do now is to keep moving forward and trust that things will turn out for the best. All right?" Merlin nodded reluctantly. "All right, then. Let's find out what Arthur has to say, and we'll see if our combined wits can find a solution to this problem."

Another nod. Gaius ushered Merlin out of the makeshift morgue and into the corridors toward the council chambers. Dawn had arrived, lighting the castle with enough warm light to make less burdened minds rejoice at the new day.

Most of the council had gathered by the time Merlin and Gaius arrived. They were deep enough in discussion that none of them looked up to acknowledge their arrival until they had taken their places, Gaius in the middle of it all and Merlin off to one side.

"...we've suffered 50 dead, maybe more. Mostly in the lower town," Agravaine said as he concluded his report on the night's casualties.

Arthur spread his fingers across the maps on the table. Warrior that he was, he knew how to defeat mortal opponents. But what could the best fighter do against a spirit that could breach any defenses? "And there is no way of fighting them?"

Agravaine shook his head. "Our only weapons are torches. And the light doesn't kill them. It only repels them."

"What are they?" Arthur finally looked up at Gaius, seeking answers as well as some degree of assurance that these creatures could be killed.

"The Dorocha, sire," Gaius sighed, "The spirits of the dead. On Samhain's eve, in the time of the Old Religion, the high priestesses would perform a blood sacrifice and release them."

"But who'd do such a thing now?" Agravaine asked.

"Morgana," Gaius said flatly. Of course it was Morgana. It always came down to Morgana.

Arthur's eyes went dark with contained fury. "You see her hand in this?"

"We know she was traveling to the Isle of the Blessed." The healer hardly needed to explain the dangers of a High Priestess performing a rite in the heart of the Triple Goddesses' most sacred temple. He looked like he wanted to say nothing else at all in the matter.

"How do we defeat these creatures?"

Gaius shook his head. "I don't know, Sire. No mortal has ever survived their touch."

Arthur nodded slowly and looked back down at the maps, slowly tracing the drawing of the castle of Camelot with a finger. "Find out what you can, Gaius, and inform me at once if you discover anything. If there truly is no way to defeat them, this kingdom will fall."

* * *

"Do you suppose this is why they lit bonfires on Samhain in the old days?"

"What?" Arthur started. His thoughts had wandered too far afield to catch Merlin's question.

Merlin peered back at him, framed in darkness with his face lit by candles. For a strange moment, he looked unfathomably wise, as though the knowledge of ages rested behind those shadowed eyes. "Gaius told me that, in the old days, the people would light bonfires on Samhain's Eve. He said it was part of the celebration- to bring light to the coming winter. Now I wonder if they did it to keep the spirits away." His gaze returned to the newly lit candles, their flames reflecting gold in the cerulean pools.

"I don't know," Arthur replied absently. He weaved the sword back and forth in the firelight, looking for nicks in the metal that might weaken the blade and cause it to shatter in the midst of battle. There was none. Merlin made sure the blacksmiths kept it in perfect repair before polishing it to such a shine that its surface reflected like a silvered mirror, save for where the acid-etched crest of Camelot was inscribed. Tap the length of the blade and it would ring like a bell, balancing perfectly where the hilt met steel. It was a well-made sword, likely the finest in the whole of the kingdom. Uther had spared no expense in its making. The smith had done his job well, if even the most discerning eye could not find fault with it. If only the flaws of men could be so easily hammered away.

The basket of candles hit the floor. A single taper escaped, rattling as it rolled toward the window. Merlin looked up, an apology writ plainly on his face. "Thought I saw something," he explained.

"What was it, a spider?" Arthur attempted a joke, but the levity fell flat. "Just... pick it up." Merlin stayed still, eyes on the shifting curtain. "Do you want me to get one of the maids to do it for you?"

"It's not a joke," he said, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.

Arthur slowly let out the breath he had been holding. If Merlin could smile at this- however slightly- then a Prince of Camelot could face anything. He brushed past his servant and picked up the wayward candle. "Here," he said softly, holding it out to Merlin before pushing the curtain aside with the tip of his sword. No ghosts lurked behind the heavy fabric, just the cold gray stone of the wall. "You see, Merlin, I could never be like you," he said, forcing himself to walk slowly back into the light, "I could never let myself look spineless.

"Oh, well, you see," Merlin said, his voice strengthening as they resumed their longstanding banter. "I'm different. I could never let myself look heartless."

"What?" Arthur looked back, eyebrow raised at the comment.

"Well, all right. Thoughtless."

Arthur made a face, pondering the thought of being thoughtless, and then shook his head. "Never."

"Definitely humorless."

This prompted a truly skeptical look from the prince. "Because you're not funny."

They both jumped at the scream that echoed through the courtyard outside, both pairs of eyes locked on the window where a Dorocha might appear at any moment. Nothing came through. The only sound was that of the candle hitting the floor again. Arthur started, unable to keep his calm facade in place. Merlin glanced at him sidewards, wondering if the expression was for his own benefit. "You're not scared," he said skeptically.

Arthur's eyes remained locked on the window and the dark night beyond. "Oh, I am, Merlin," he finally looked back at his servant, making an effort to mask his fear. "Maybe more than you."

Merlin scoffed at the thought that Arthur- the mighty hunter, who could charge into battle without a thought to his own safety- could be so afraid of something. But Arthur's expression did not soften into humor to tell Merlin he was only joking. He would have to accept that even a prince could be afraid to die.


	5. Chapter 5

They arrived by the hundreds. People from the surrounding farms and villages, peasants and nobles alike streamed into the city to seek refuge from this new threat. The Dorocha, Gaius had called them, the spirits of the dead that killed indiscriminately when night came. Spirits that could not be killed, only warded away by fire. As Arthur watched the refugees come and go in the citadel's courtyard, he almost wished for a border war instead. At least mortal soldiers could be countered and defeated.

"They're coming from across the kingdom," he heard Gaius say to the assembled councilmen, "They're looking for Camelot to give them protection."

"And we will give it to them," he replied without looking away from the window.

"We cannot house them all," Agravaine said.

He could imagine the figures and sums running through his uncle's head. They ran through Arthur's as well. The number of people versus the amount of available food and water. And firewood. They added up to a grim total that would not last long. "We have to try." There was nothing else to do.

"How?" Agravaine shook his head, baffled, "We cannot live like this forever. We must find some way to vanquish these creatures."

Arthur tore his gaze away from the window and turned to the Gaius. The old healer's knowledge had gotten them out of terrible situations before. If anyone knew a way, he would. "Somewhere in all your books, Gaius, there must be something. All I'm asking for is a way to fight them."

Gaius's shoulders sagged. "I fear the Dorocha cannot be defeated with swords and arrows, Sire. If I am right, and the veil between the worlds is torn, then there's only one path open to us- to travel to the Isle of the Blessed, and repair it."

"And how do I do that?"

I'm not sure," Gaius hesitated, though his voice sounded quite sure, "But for the tear to be created, a blood sacrifice would be required. To repair it would require another."

Somehow, it always came down to spilling blood. How many knights had they lost in the dragon attack? And how many more to defeat Morgause and Morgana's armies? Always, blood was shed to defend the kingdom, and always were the numbers too achingly high. But this time? This time was different. Arthur rolled the sums around in his head and spared a glance back out the window. This time only one sacrifice was needed to save them. A simple equation, that. He regarded them one by one, catching Merlin's eye last. "We ride before nightfall.

"And who will be the sacrifice?" Gaius asked.

He would ask that, force Arthur to say it aloud. "If laying down my life will spare the people of Camelot, then that is what I must do."

* * *

The man in black rode fast through the forest depths. Though there were no trails, no clear paths to his destination, he urged the horse on without hesitation avoiding a deadfall here and a bog over there until reining the winded beast in in front of a decrepit hut. Moss and vines draped themselves over the moldering thatch, and the bent, weather stained walls made it look as tired as the aging rowan tree crouched behind it. It was hardly a proper dwelling for an exiled queen, but it served its purpose as a refuge.

The man entered quietly, not wanting to disturb the woman if she was at prayer or in the midst of some ritual, but she was not there. He closed the door behind him, his gaze running over the woman's accoutrements and all the other things she needed to prepare her spells. He was not, as a rule, fond of magic but he was willing to put aside his disdain for his lady's sake. Vengeance and love were powerful enticements.

No footstep announced her presence, just the tip of a sword at his back. Agravaine winced. "My lady?"

"My lord," Morgana's tone was nearly playful, as though she delighted in catching her spy off guard. She lowered the sword and waited for him to turn and face her. "I trust you bring me good news? Tell me."

"The kingdom is on its knees," Agravaine said, glee tainting his words.

Morgana's lips quirked up in an insincere smile. "How terrible."

"Indeed."

"What of the poor people?"

"More fall every night." That had been the plan- to open the Veil between the worlds and let the Dorocha take would they could find. When Camelot fell, Morgana had only to close the veil. A sacrifice to open it, and a sacrifice to close it; peasants were everywhere. It would be simple enough to complete, and when she was done, all Morgana needed to do was return to Camelot, brush Arthur from his precarious throne, and re-take her rightful place.

"Such a shame."

"You should know that Arthur intends to vanquish these creatures." The foolish prince had made it that much easier to clear Morgana's way back to the throne.

Morgana scoffed at the thought, "Impossible."

"He makes ready to leave for the Isle of the Blessed as we speak. And if the Dorocha do not kill him on the way, our brave little lamb intends to sacrifice himself to repair the veil," Agravaine said. A pleased light brightened her eyes, but it dimmed quickly. "Something's troubling you. Morgana?"

"Something the Cailleach said. Spoke of someone called Emrys," She trailed off, her eyes distant and lost in thought. "Called him my doom."

"Your doom? What does she mean?"

"I don't know," Morgana sighed. Agravaine wondered if she even remembered he was there.

He shifted impatiently. For months, Agravaine had stood at Arthur's side, advising him in the ways of politics and helping him to guide the kingdom down a peaceful path. For months, it had grated to aid the son of the man who had murdered his sister. Ygraine had been one of the lights in Agravaine's life. Uther's first mistake had been to marry her. Then followed years of childlessness for which Ygraine was blamed. Then the ultimate betrayal- to turn her life over to the witches of the Isle of the Blessed to sire a son when he already had a living daughter. His vengeance had waited for years, carefully cultivated, waiting for the right moment to strike. That moment felt so close now. "Morgana, we should be celebrating. Arthur will be dead with in the week, leaving the throne open for Camelot's rightful heir."

"Perhaps... But. Emrys. I must find who he is. I may claim my throne soon, but I will not sit easily upon it until I have found him. And destroyed him."

* * *

Arthur settled in the chair across from his father, searching for the great man he had looked up to since childhood. He was there, somewhere, in the sorrow-laden figure, but new lines of guilt and grief creasing his weathered face hid him. Arthur's jaw clenched at the sight. This was not the way Uther Pendragon should have ended, as a broken man slouched in a chair, too feeble even to speak to his only son. If the world were truly a just place he would have died in battle, defending his kingdom, or in his sleep, surrounded by his progeny. But the world was not a fair place. If Uther could not have justice from the gods, then at least he would have the truth from Arthur before he went off to die for the realm._ "_There are many things I have to thank you for. You taught me so much, but most of all, you have taught me what it is to be a prince." Arthur bit his lip to keep the tears back. "I hope this time you'll be proud of me."

Uther's eyes remained locked on the window. He made no sign he had heard Arthur until the prince stood to leave. A shaking hand grabbed Arthur's arm. "Don't leave me," Uther whispered, two awful tears rolling down his face.

Arthur steeled himself for his leave-taking. "I have to, Father."

"Please. . . "

The single word nearly broke Arthur's will. Uther Pendragon had never begged in his life. He gently pried Uther's hand off his arm and adjusted his father's blankets, quickly turning away before the king saw him brush at his eyes. He was halfway out of the room when Guinevere appeared like a ghost he had not meant to fought to look away from his father. "Promise me you'll look after him while I'm gone?" He meant to make it sound like he was going on a hunting trip, would be back in a few days, but the faintest tremor in his voice betrayed him.

"What is it?" Guinevere asked, trepidation growing in her eyes. "You don't have to go."

He swallowed back his fears, forced himself to be brave for her sake. "I do."

Tears welled in her eyes. "Please, Arthur, take care. You are precious, not just the kingdom."

Arthur wrapped his hands around her smaller ones, as though he could protect all of her with a gesture. "Smile."

She tried to summon a ray of happiness and failed. "I can't."

He changed tactics, the image of a sun-drenched room and an impulsive decision coming to light in his memory. "Do you remember, the first time I kissed you?" he asked her. She must have remembered the same moment. A smile like the first light of dawn after a long, dark night appeared on her face. Arthur soaked it all in- her smile, the sparkle in her eyes, her hands in his, even the faint scent of her lavender soap. One last moment of bliss before he said good-bye. "There," he said, "That's the memory I want to take with me." He pulled Guinevere into a tight embrace, and then let her go. He all but fled the room without looking back. He could not look back. If he looked back, his will would falter, and his people needed him to be strong. Not for the first time, Arthur wished he had been born a simple farmer. No one asked a farmer to turn his back on love and give his life for a kingdom.

His feet brought him to the council chamber without his realizing it, to see to the kingdom's needs now that his good-byes were finished. Agravaine was waiting. He tugged the royal seal from his finger- it felt as though it was reluctant to leave him, but surely that was his imagination. He pressed it into Agravaine's hands._ "_You are to take this. It bears the royal seal. In my absence, responsibility for the kingdom rests with you."

"What of your father?"

"Should he die, you are to assume the throne," Arthur said. Without his own child to inherit, Agravaine was his closest relative and thus the closest to the throne, save for Morgana. Her claim was solid, but she was unfit to sit the throne of Camelot. She might have been once, before magic had turned her mind and twisted her into a cruel and soulless tyrant.

"Arthur-" Agravaine tried to give the signet ring back, but Arthur refused.

"You're the only person I trust, uncle."

"I beg of you, for the sake of the kingdom, there must be another way."

"My mind is made up," He managed to smile, to give off the illusion of his own fearlessness until the smile turned genuine. "I'm just grateful you were here."

* * *

It had been a comfortable room, Merlin decided. A bed, a table and chair, a cabinet. Storage barrels and his plant drawings tacked to the wall. An east-facing window where the morning sunlight streamed in to wake him when he was late to his duties. A good room altogether, though a little cold on winter mornings. Merlin wondered if it would go back to being a storage room once he was gone, or if Gaius would leave it as it was now. He heard the old healer's tread on the steps behind him and shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, steeling himself to face his mentor- likely for the last time. "Merlin, what are you doing?"

"It is my destiny to protect Arthur," he said carefully.

"How? Your magic is powerless against the Dorocha."

Merlin swallowed hard against the words he said next. Whatever the cost..."Then I must sacrifice myself in his place." Arthur had to live. Arthur's destiny was greater than his own; he was meant to be a king one day. A great king for a golden age. What was Merlin but a bumbling servant meant to be between danger and his prince?

Gaius's eyes widened. "No," he whispered.

Merlin almost smiled. Gaius always offered good advice and sometimes he followed it. This time he could not. The future was more important. "My life has always been marked out by destiny. If this is meant to be..." His voice threatened to break. He fought back against the lump in his throat. "I am not afraid," he insisted, "I will gladly die, Gaius, knowing that one day, Albion will live."

Master and apprentice regarded each other for a long time. Merlin watched the play of emotions flit across Gaius's face- denial, anger, disbelief, and finally acceptance. They both knew that once Merlin made up his mind, there was no changing it. Finally, the old healer wrapped Merlin in a long hug, and while he returned the gesture, Merlin was the first to pull away. Destiny called again, and he had a prince to protect.

* * *

She was radiant. Even wrapped in sadness and fear, Lancelot saw nothing but Guinevere's beauty shining through. Other women might have finer figures or expensive adornments, but she needed none of those decorations. Would a jewel encrusted window frame improve upon the glory of a simple sunrise? With a halo of the afternoon light caught in her hair, she already looked like a queen. "Gwen."

"Will you grant me a favor?" she asked

_'Ask for the world,' _he thought, '_and I will bring it to you'. "_Anything," was all he said. To say more would release the floodgates, but that would not be appropriate. Gwen cared for Lancelot, yes, but her love was for Arthur now and him alone.

As though she sensed his thoughts, Guinevere glanced away, her eyes finding Arthur in the shadows at the end of the courtyard with Merlin trailing after him. "Look after him. Bring him home."

Lancelot bowed his head, a hand resting over his heart in a silent oath. "I will protect him with my life. You have my promise."

"Thank you," she favored him with a faint smile before turning away, sparing a last glance for Arthur before her steps sped up and she disappeared around a corner.

Lancelot's gaze lingered on that corner for a long time as he wondered how things might have been different if he had stayed in Camelot the first time or if he had come back with the prince on their second meeting. Would Guinevere have ended up in his arms instead of Arthur's? He shook his head to banish those thoughts and climbed into the saddle before the others could leave him behind. Arthur loved Guinevere, and she loved him in return. There was no room for Lancelot.

* * *

They pushed the horses as much as they dared, covering more leagues before the sun fell toward the horizon, forcing the company to stop and find shelter. A few minutes' scouting found a shallow cave large enough for all of them and open space outside for the horses to graze. Lancelot glanced around as he climbed out of the saddle, ignoring his aching legs. The cave was not the comforting shelter of the palace or a house within the city walls but if they had to camp in the wilderness with restless spirits flying about, it was better than nothing.

"Elyan, look after the horses," Arthur called out, "They need watering. I need someone to volunteer to get firewood."

"I can do that," Merlin chirped before heading into the trees.

Lancelot followed him. He was not surprised that the younger man had come along. Prying him away from Arthur was an impossible task. That did not mean he wanted to see Merlin put in harm's way. "You shouldn't be here. You have no powers."

"It doesn't matter," Merlin said stubbornly.

"You're not a warrior, Merlin. I don't want to see you hurt," Lancelot said as he knelt to pick up a few sticks. "If you leave in the morning, I'll cover with Arthur."

Merlin spun on a heel, a rare flash of indignation in his eyes. "It's your duty to protect Camelot, no matter the cost," he said, waiting for Lancelot's reluctant nod before he continued. "Well, it's my duty to protect Arthur. Surely, you can understand that."

That was the trouble with arguing with Merlin. Clever Merlin, who knew them all so well, knew how to pick apart their arguments, turn their words around on them so he could win every argument. Lancelot sighed, "I can understand that very well." Too well. He had made a promise to a great lady, after all.

"Besides," Merlin spoke up again, a small smirk on his face that died too soon, "Swords are as useless against them as magic. We're all helpless against the Dorocha."

_'A wise man speaks the truth when others fear to admit it,'_ Lancelot thought as he watched Merlin disappear back into the woods, his arms laden with firewood for the night. He wished the sorcerer could be wrong for once.

* * *

In her lonely hovel, Morgana prepared to sleep. Or, more specifically, she prepared to dream. Since their first meeting, she had worn the healing bracelet Morgause had given her. It chased away the dreams- the oracular visions- she had been plagued with since childhood. Once, she had believed herself to be cursed.

Then Morgause taught her otherwise, told her that the Sight was a rare gift. One she could train and bend to her will to see the paths of the future spreading out before her, and though she had tried, Morgana had never quite learned the trick of doing so. Over and over, the same few visions appeared the most insulting being that of her one-time servant being raised to the throne that was rightfully Morgana's. Camelot's dignity would fall far under Arthur's reign, if such common-born creatures were allowed to rise so high.

She pulled the bracelet off her wrist, set it aside, and curled up on her narrow bed, the Cailleach's voice echoing in her thoughts as she drifted off to sleep, _"Emrys. He is your destiny, and he is your doom."_

_A red sun shone over the battlefield. The faint sounds of combat and the groans of the dying were interwoven with the stuttering calls of crows as her vision slowly swept across the land. A great battlefield upon a wide plain where two armies had clashed in vicious combat. The toll of the dead was beyond reckoning; a generation lost in a day. What had it all been for? Had her cause been just? Had the Goddess ordered this? _

_A bright sword caught her eye, its golden hilt and rune-etched blade were special somehow, though that riddle's answer lingered just out of reach. The simpler question of who had fought was in front of her, each army's flags firmly planted among the corpses. Camelot's banners she knew- a golden dragon rampant upon a field of crimson. The other was unknown to her, and yet Morgana knew it was hers- would be hers- two scarlet serpents intertwined upon a field of black. _

_But who had won the battle?_

_She shivered and struggled to rise- how had she been wounded? She did not know. Light broke through the clouds, blinding her for a moment before a red-cloaked figure stepped between her and the glare. It was an old man, his face weathered by the years, his hair and beard flowing and white. She had never seen him before, and yet something about him was so, so familiar. Something in his eyes, eyes that were full of anger, despair, and- worst of all- pity. Morgana reached a trembling hand toward him, "Help me, Emrys," she gasped._

_The old warlock's gnarled fingers tightened on his staff, "Is this really what you wanted, Morgana?"_

She started awake, dizzy as her own dark hut spun a slow circle around her until she willed herself into a steadier state. A new vision, then. One that had nothing to do with Guinevere and everything to do with a more dire foe than Arthur's potential bride. Her destiny and her doom, the Cailleach had said. But the future could be changed. "Emrys," she hissed.

Morgana knew her enemy's face now. It was only a matter of finding him.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: Updates will be coming a little slower from this point on. I had the first part written out, for the most part, and while the rest of the story is scripted and arranged, I have yet to finish the prose parts. Thank you to those who have followed the story or commented. I hope you've enjoyed it so far._

* * *

The ruins before them stretched on and on, telling the sad story of a fallen city. Its once proud spires had long since crumbled, the shining white stone now blackened in places, the rest grown dull and riddled with cracks and growths of vines and weeds. Signs of fire marked it, as well, though the scorch marks appeared at the tops of the towers, not along the walls and lower buildings where they should have, had the fire been natural. The company pulled their horses up short as they caught sight of the city.

"What is that place?" Merlin asked.

Arthur smiled, able to play the part of know-it-all for once. "The citadel of Daelbeth. My father would tell me stories of it as a child. For hundreds of years, it was the greatest city in the five kingdoms."

"What happened?"

"Well, after many battles and many victories, they met the one foe they couldn't withstand: the dragons. Only rumor and stories remain as to why the Dragonlords didn't stop them from destroying the city. Perhaps they just wanted to annihilate something," he nudged his horse forward, sparing a glance back at Merlin. "The dragons were monsters, Merlin. You can't expect such beasts to be merciful."

'_Or the Dragonlords,_' Merlin silently added; surely Arthur was thinking it. They probably all were. To shine a light on the good that magic could do was a battle Merlin had been losing for a long time now. For every bright bit of magic Merlin tried to show Arthur, two shadows sprang up to blind the prince to the light. If Morgana's most recent actions had not lost the war for him already, the dragon-scorched ruins were doing nothing to help his cause. He stared at the city for a few long moments before nudging his horse into a fast canter to keep from being left behind.

* * *

Daelbeth grew no lovelier as they approached, just larger. Its dark stone walls loomed high overhead where they had not crumbled and sent great piles of debris across the road. They used one of the gaps to enter, skirting the city's edges while searching for a place to camp, finally settling on a bedraggled hilltop courtyard near what might have been a temple or some noble's house. With the problem of sleeping arrangements solved, they moved on to the next one- the lack of firewood. The dragon fire had burned all the wood structures to ash, along with the trees, and in all the years since, no one had rebuilt even the smallest hut. No trees had grown, either, leaving the company to scavenge for bits and pieces of scrapped wood that managed to survive.

As the sun began to disappear below the horizon, Arthur took stock of the tiny collection of sticks Merlin was already trying to set alight. The supply would hardly last two hours. "Pair off. Find any wood you can and get the fires burning," he ordered.

They split up to search the area, eyes half on the ground and half on the skies as the first screams echoed through the old stones. Within an hour, each of them had collected an armful of splintery wood, but while each pair had a blazing torch at hand, that solitary bit of fire could not defend against an enemy that had the ability to attack from any side it chose. The pairs clustered together, backs to backs as they sidled toward the campsite keeping the torches pointed outward until it was clear that the wood gathering expedition was finished. "Let's go! We've got enough!"

"Go!" Arthur shouted. He spun lightly around to ward off one the Dorocha as it dove toward them, its mouth gaping as though it were trying to devour the flames before it burst apart in a shimmering spray. With the threats gone for the moment, he turned to follow his knights back to camp.

* * *

Merlin scowled at the tinder that stubbornly refused to light. Apparently the drizzle that had shadowed them through the last leg of their journey had been enough to soak the wood through. Without time to dry the sticks out, they would never catch fire. How fortunate that Lancelot was the one who had stayed behind with him. He lowered the flint and steel, whispering words of power to send enough of a spark into the damp wood to light it, offering an innocent shrug to answer Lancelot's knowing smirk as the rest of the knights filtered in with Arthur.

"It won't get us through the night, " Percival said softly.

"It'll keep the area safe for a little while," Arthur responded with the confidence Merlin knew he did not feel.

The fire burned brightly for a time. They fed it slowly, waiting until it was nearly embers before setting the next bit in. The Dorocha screamed in the distance, but the little campfire was just enough to keep them at bay. Arthur suggested that they try to get a little rest, one or two at a time but they were all too keyed up to lie down, let alone attempt sleep.

The taunting light of false dawn brightened the horizon as Gwaine put the last chunk of wood onto the fire. "The last one. Maybe we should draw lots, see who gets some more."

"I'll go," Arthur immediately volunteered.

"You'll need help."

Merlin quickly stood to speak up before anyone else could, "I'll go with him."

Arthur looked gave him a skeptical look. Apparently he doubted his servant's ability to perform a bit of menial labor. "Are you sure you're the right person?"

"Well, since when have you known how to collect firewood?"

They all laughed, and even Arthur had to concede the point. Why would a city-born prince know how to collect firewood better than a village-born peasant? Merlin gave Lancelot a reassuring smile as they left the little fire's circle of light. He wished he felt the confidence he showed, but it was so dark. He hurried to keep up with Arthur and the torch he carried.

The search went on longer than either of them expected, though they finally found a promising spot. The beams that once supported a terraced building had somehow survived, providing an unexpected largesse that Merlin picked through, grabbing the driest bits while Arthur stood close by with the torch, constantly watching for signs of the Dorocha.

He must have been overly focused on his task, or maybe he was ignoring everything around himself to keep from panicking. One moment he was picking up one last bit of wood, the next a heavy weight slammed into him with a loud, "Merlin, look out!" A Dorocha screeched past, just above their heads.

They fell to the next level with a bone-jarring thud. The torch rolled away and off the roof, disappearing into the darkness. Arthur rolled to his feet first, wincing as he pulled Merlin up, the servant's weight pulling at a new injury on the prince's arm. "You all right?"

"Yeah, fine," Merlin said, "Your arm?"

Arthur shrugged it off and ushered Merlin toward a door. "Let's go. We can't stay out here."

They ran, bursting through doors and skittering down flights of crumbling stairs seeking some kind of refuge. The lower they went, the safer they felt, though neither Merlin nor Arthur wanted to think about one fact: the Dorocha were not stopped by something even as solid as stone walls.

* * *

The fire burned low as the knights waited for Arthur and Merlin to return. Around the fire, there was no sight or sound of the Dorocha, but who could tell for the rest of the abandoned city? Torches only burned for son long, and the one Arthur had taken could not last until dawn. "They should have been back by now," Leon finally spoke up

"Someone should go look for them," Elyan said.

Percival looked the rest of them, then at the dying fire. "Well we've only got one torch between us," he said. Once the torch left, no one could leave that spot until morning.

"Who's coming?" Lancelot asked as he held the torch in the embers to strengthen its flame. All of them stepped forward, though Gwaine cast a last, mournful look at the brighter fire before hurrying to follow.

* * *

Arthur let out a ragged breath and tried not to wince as Merlin tied off the makeshift bandage he had wrapped around the prince's bleeding arm. A memento for saving a servant's life. He shivered, wishing that he could rub some of the life back into his arms. Wrap up in a cloak. Light a fire. '_Might as well wish for my own hearth and the moon on a string while I'm asking for impossible things'_. "It's cold," Arthur defended his shivers at Merlin's skeptical glance.

"Right."

"You're not feeling it?" Merlin shook his head. His servant was baffling him again. It _was _cold and thin as Merlin was, and without the benefit of armor and its padding, he should have been freezing. But fear did strange things to a man's perceptions. Merlin was the most courageous man Arthur had ever met. When he looked into those calm eyes, Arthur almost felt brave again._ "_You know, Merlin, you're braver than I give you credit for."

"Really? Is that a compliment?" Merlin chuckled and leaned back against the dark stone wall.

"Don't be stupid." Arthur scoffed, but they both knew he had not really rescinded the rare compliment. Their smiles died at the sound of the Dorocha's screams. They were not far away and would find their way into the corridor soon. "Of all the things I've faced, I've never worried about dying,"

"I don't think you should now," Merlin said confidently, as though this was all a game and he had figured out the necessary steps to win it.

Arthur shook his head, baffled. For a supposedly unlettered peasant, Merlin always knew the right thing to say. "Sometimes you puzzle me."

"You've never fathomed me out?"

"No," Arthur said, swallowing hard to keep his teeth from chattering. He suddenly remembered their first meeting in the marketplace, when a peasant boy had stood up to a spoiled prince. '_You're a riddle, Merlin'_, he had said, and in all the time that had passed, Arthur never had figured Merlin out. He would be a clumsy oaf of a boy one moment, and then turn into the wisest man the prince had ever met the next. And always so very brave.

"I always thought," Merlin said quietly, "that if things had been different, we'd have been good friends."

"Yes," Arthur breathed the reply. They already were. Had he ever admitted that to himself?

"That is," Merlin went on as if Arthur had not said anything, "If you hadn't been such an arrogant, pompous, dollop-head." They laughed together, and suddenly Merlin was the wise man again, driving Arthur's fears away "We will defeat the Dorocha. We will, Arthur. Together.

"Well I appreciate that." He pursed his lips and took a deep breath, trying not to think about how close those screams were. He glanced back at the other man, "You know you're a brave man, Merlin. Between battles."

A grin lit up Merlin's face. "You don't know how many times I've saved your life."

Arthur chuckled, finding it difficult to imagine Merlin, ever inept with a sword, charging to his rescue. "If I ever become King, I'm going to have you made court jester." A scream from just beyond the rickety door cut their laughter short. Arthur gripped his sword tight, taking strength from the solid blade, though it would do him no good against the deathless creatures._ "_They say the darkest hour is just before the dawn."

"It's pretty dark now," Merlin quipped as they faced down the darkness.

"It won't be long, then."

A Dorocha appeared before them, its ghostly form illuminating the hallway with sickly light as it stared at them, deciding which of them it would take. Arthur took a breath and moved to stand. As Prince of Camelot, it was his duty to protect his people, even if it was only one peasant who stood behind him. What more did he owe if it was his only true friend at his back? It was simple. He owed Merlin everything. If it cost his life to pay that debt, then so be it.

A hand on his shoulder pushed him back to the floor, and he saw Merlin's pale, determined face pass by as he rose to meet the Dorocha, almost running forward to keep himself between the creature and his prince. _"_Merlin, no!" Arthur screamed, but it was too late for warnings. The Dorocha caught Merlin in a swirl of light and frozen air, flinging him back into the darkness to fall, limp as a forgotten doll, against the wall.

The door slammed open, nearly rattling off its hinges as the knights burst in moments too late. Presented with five living targets, the Dorocha turned away from Arthur, screaming as it rushed them. Then Lancelot stepped forward, his torch a blaze of light that drove the spirit away before it could do more harm. They paused, waiting for it to coalesce and come at them again, but it never re-appeared. A moment of stunned silence passed. They stared at each other, each trying to reconcile the events of the previous minutes, and then Arthur turned and raced the short distance to the end of the hall. "What happened?" Lancelot gasped at the sight of Merlin crumpled on the floor.

Arthur did not answer as he gingerly rolled Merlin onto his back, bile rising in his throat at the sight of Merlin's eyes, open and fixed on nothing, and a rime of frost on his cold skin. As much as he had feared for himself, he had never expected Merlin to fall prey to the Dorocha. Yet he had- all to save Arthur's life. He bowed his head, determined to follow his own maxims; he would not shed tears for Merlin.

"Arthur... Look," Lancelot breathed. He lowered the torch toward Merlin's pale face, close enough to melt the frost. And to make him flinch, however slightly, from the heat and light. Arthur pressed a hand against Merlin's throat. His breath caught when he felt the butterfly-soft flutter of a heartbeat beneath his fingers.

"He's alive."

"How?" Hadn't they all seen the corpses left behind after the Dorocha's' attacks? Hadn't Gaius said that no mortal had survived their touch?

Arthur shook his head. "I don't know. But we should leave here. Dawn is coming." His injured arm complained as he tried to lift Merlin's limp form. A strong hand on his shoulder stopped him from going further.

"Sire," Percival said softly, "Let me." The prince nodded and moved away so the big knight could gather Merlin into his arms. Lancelot led the silent progression, torch in hand, through the maze of corridors and into the ruined courtyard where the first rays of dawn lit the old city. A handful of minutes had passed since the attack, and the Dorocha were gone, chased away by the morning light. Arthur's stomach churned at the thought of it. If they could have held out for that much longer, the danger would have passed.

He watched mutely as Percival laid Merlin on the bedroll Lancelot spread out, tucking blankets in to keep him warm. '_He should be making stupid jokes right now. They're always worst in the morning_'. Merlin's eyes were open, vividly blue against the pallor of his face. They darted about, looking at things the rest of them could not see. He looked frightened. Arthur hoped he was imagining it.** "**We have to get him back to Gaius," he said suddenly. Gaius would know how to save him. Gaius knew everything.

The knights started as one, their eyes widening. "And abandon the quest?" Leon stepped up to the prince to catch his gaze.

"He saved my life. I won't let him die," Arthur frowned. Leon was in the way. He could not see Merlin anymore.

"Sire, if we don't get to the Isle of the Blessed, hundreds more will perish," Leon said. It was not often that Arthur needed to be reminded of his responsibilities, but now seemed to be one of those times. No one person, no matter who they were, was more important than the whole of the kingdom. He clapped a hand on Arthur's shoulder to catch his attention

Lancelot stepped in before the confrontation could take an ugly turn. "Let me take him."

Arthur shook his head. "Carrying a wounded man, alone, it will take you or three days to reach Camelot." He was studiously ignoring the fact that the group of them would travel no faster, that they were probably too late to reach Camelot in time.

"Not if I go through the Valley of the Fallen Kings." Lancelot said stubbornly, "You cannot abandon the quest."

"Sire, he's right," Leon gave the dark-eyed knight a grateful look.

Arthur finally nodded. "Of course you're right. Get the horses ready. We ride as soon as possible. You'll need to travel lightly, Lancelot. Your best hope is in speed. Take only-"

"Sire," Lancelot rested a hand on Arthur's shoulder, "We'll take care of the packing and the horses. You see to Merlin."

The prince nodded, grateful for once to be the one taking directions instead of giving them. He walked the few paces and knelt at Merlin's side. There really was nothing they could do for him, not here in Daelbeth's ruins. He was already buried in blankets and had not moved, save for the endless flickering of his glazed eyes. Arthur pulled a glove off to rest a hand against Merlin's forehead. It was so cold. How could a man be that cold, and still live? "Merlin? Can you hear me?"

The younger man shifted; his eyes stopped darting back and forth and almost focused on Arthur. His cracked lips opened in a sigh that might have been the prince's name.

Arthur moved to look Merlin in the eye. "You're very ill, Merlin. Lancelot is going to take you back to Camelot so Gaius can look after you. The rest of us will continue on to the Isle of the Blessed. We have to see this through. Do you understand?"

"No... Need to stay...with you..." Merlin struggled to rise, made it as far as lifting his head away from the blankets before his strength gave out. He sagged back against the blankets, his eyes fluttering closed. "Stay," he breathed again.

"Merlin," his tone was sharper then he intended. Would Merlin contradict his every order until his last breath? "Just... just rest." Arthur tucked the blankets back in place and rubbed his gritty eyes. He wished he could lie down right there on the cold ground and sleep for a week. Instead, he knelt at Merlin's side, watching him slide in and out of a fitful slumber until the others came to collect him.

"Sire?" Percival's hand on his shoulder startled Arthur out of his reverie. "We're ready to go." The prince moved aside so Percival could gather Merlin up again, keeping his eyes on his fading servant until they got him into the saddle.

Lancelot took the side opposite Arthur as they got him could almost feel the cold seeping through his gloves from Merlin's hand as he wrapped the reins around it, then turned his attention to the straps that would bind him to the saddle. How often, in light of Merlin's often poor horsemanship, had he threatened to do this very thing? Now it was real and not a laughing matter. His servant- his friend- was too weak to stay in the saddle without help. "This is my fault, and I'm sorry.

Merlin gasped, his clouded eyes almost focusing on Arthur. "Take me with you, please," the voice rasped, dry as autumn leaves.

He looked up but could not bring himself to meet that glassy gaze for long. "You're dying, Merlin."

"You don't understand, Arthur, please."

"Don't you ever do as you're told?" The old joke fell flat. Humor was not an offering for the dying.

Another gasp, "I have to come with you."

"Merlin-" Arthur stopped, swallowing hard. What could he say? '_You can't come with us, Merlin, you'll slow us down too much'? 'I'm sending you away because I can't bear to watch you die by inches'_? Was Arthur, Prince of Camelot, too much of a coward to stay at his friend's side until the end?

"We have to leave," Lancelot's interruption spared Arthur from having to finish that sentence.

"Go." He gripped Merlin's shoulder when the horse stepped forward, as though the gesture could impart some small amount of strength, or at least reassure Merlin that all would be well- just as Merlin had done for him not so long ago in that lonely hallway. As the horses rounded the corner Arthur could only watch while Merlin struggled, and failed, to rise. He hoped his reassurance would not turn into a lie. _'Merciful god_,' he silently prayed to the leaden sky, _'You've taken so many of my people in these evil days. Surely, you do not need him as well. Spare him, please. Just one life..._' He clenched his jaw, fighting to contain himself and wondering at his own selfishness. How many others had made the same sort of prayer and not had it answered? Why should he get his way now, and why would he only say prayers for one soul when so many others suffered?

"Sire," Leon spoke up from behind him, "The horses are ready. We need to leave."

Arthur looked back and saw- perhaps only in his mind's eye- two figures on horseback, one red-cloaked and upright, the other in drab brown and slumped over. Alive, but for how long?

_'Please..._'


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's note: Thank you, again, to those who have favorited, followed, and commented on this story. It means a lot to me._

* * *

Lancelot's horse wanted to run. He felt it in the mincing steps the courser took up hillsides, the way it tried to take the bit between its teeth to run away with him. But there would be no long gallops today; a tug at the reins and a jab or three in the ribs kept the white horse in check. Merlin's brown gelding followed out of herd instinct. Its rider was too weak to guide it.

Arthur had chosen well when he picked that horse for Merlin. His riding skills, when he first arrived in Camelot, had been nascent at best; Ealdor had enough cart and plow horses to suit the town, but no riding horses. Such an extravagance was beyond the means of the impoverished farmers. Once the prince realized that, he found the steadiest, best-behaved horse in the royal stable.

Lancelot's own white was a temperamental brute, always prancing about and showing off. Arthur picked the stallion out just for him. "_You're always trying to disappear into the walls, Lancelot. If you're out with this showy thing, maybe the ladies will actually notice you." _The prince's sense of humor was sharp enough when he chose, though Lancelot wondered if Merlin had had some small say in the whole affair.

He glanced back at the ailing sorcerer, then up at the sky. Though the clouds were thick overhead, Merlin seemed to fare better now that it was midday. He was mostly upright, his hands weakly grasping the reins, and his eyes were focused- if only on his horse's ears. Better that, though, than the fixed gaze that had greeted Lancelot when they first found Merlin collapsed in that dark corridor in Daelbeth.

Lancelot shook his head and reined the horse in as they crested the hill. Below, an autumnal valley spread out, the trees gone gold and brown, speckled here and there with brighter oranges and reds. Water glinted in the gaps between the trees. Lancelot spied a place likely to be a pond and pointed it out to Merlin as his horse drew up next to the knight's, "I think we should stop for a while there. We can refill our waterskins and give the horses a chance to rest."

Merlin barely glanced up, his answer a faint nod before he lowered his head against his horse's neck, his shoulders hunched against the shivers that racked his thin frame. The horse sensed its rider's distress and stood stock-still. Lancelot again wished his own white were as well behaved. It pulled at the bit again and danced in place, nickering at the scent of water on the air. "Fine, then," he said more to the courser than anything, "Let's go on."

When they reached it, they discovered the pond was hardly more than a puddle, though clear and rocky instead of muddy. Its source was a little rill tumbling across stones and tree roots, and it emptied through breaks in the fallen branches that had created the pond in the first place. Lancelot led the two horses to the rill's edge and let them drink while he refilled his and Merlin's waterskins before checking on the ties that helped keep Merlin in the saddle. They had loosened during the morning's ride.

"Lance-?"

Lancelot bit back the irritation at the shortening of his name as he secured the lacings around Merlin's leg. He hated being called 'Lance'; it made him sound like more of a blunt instrument than he already was. But this case was special. He let it go. "What is it?"

"We stopped?"

"Yes, Merlin. To water the horses and rest for a bit. How are you feeling?" He pulled a glove off to test the other man's forehead. It was clammy, and a cold sweat soaked his hair.

"'s cold. . . Where's Arthur?"

"He and the rest of them went on to the Isle of the Blessed. We're going back to Camelot so Gaius can see to you, remember?"

Merlin's eyes had closed. Lancelot thought the sorcerer had fallen asleep again until he spoke, "Need t' go back. . . Arthur needs me."

"Arthur needs you well again. That's why we're going back to Camelot,"

"No." Merlin's hand twitched on the reins, as though he was trying to direct the horse back the way they had come but did not have the strength to do it. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. Lancelot thought he saw a wetness caught in Merlin's lashes. "Need to find Arthur," he finally said with all the meager force he could manage.

"Merlin, we're nearly a day's ride in the wrong direction by now. You're not well. We need to get back to Camelot so you can recover. Arthur has Leon and the others with him. They'll keep him safe until he comes home." Lancelot clasped Merlin's shoulder, but as he urged the horses back into the forest, he knew that despite whatever magic was keeping Merlin alive, he would not be whole until he saw Arthur home and safe again.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon before Arthur signaled for them to stop. The road had been clear since Daelbeth, leading them through the rocky hills as the forest grew thinner around them. The lone village they passed through had been locked up tight; only a lonely guard had raised any issue, but his questions quickly ended at the sight of the royal insignia. When the company refused his offer of resting at the village's inn, he had offered water for them and the horses, as well as a piece of advice: "_There's naught but death on the road afore ya, milord. Best spend the night at our hearth and turn back with the dawn. End of the world seems nigh, and there's nothing to be done about it, unless milord knows secrets o' the world beyond the knowing o' this old head."_ Arthur had assured the man that all would be well and thanked him for the water before urging the company on again. Between the village and their stopping point at a widening of the road, they only people they had seen were dead, taken by the Dorocha.

They all climbed wearily out of their saddles, keeping their voices low, their worried glances finding Arthur well ahead of them, standing apart like a self-appointed sentry. A morose sentry, at that. It was not the first time today they had missed Merlin and his constant chatter. In spite of- or perhaps because of- his complaints and bickering with the prince, their travels before today had always felt lighter, even on the darkest of nights. Without him, no one was in the mood to laugh and only Leon was brave enough to approach Arthur. You never knew what you had until you lost it, and without his clumsy servant, the prince had lost his laughter.

Of course Gwaine smiled first, lured away by a siren's song. "Can you hear that?"

Leon gave him a skeptical glance as he edged past the shorter knight on his way to speak with Arthur. "Bees?"

"Food!" Gwaine said cheerfully, flashing the rest of them a broad grin as he marched up to a hollow tree trunk.

"Are you trying to get us killed?" Leon asked.

"We're riding to our deaths, anyway," Gwaine shrugged, his smile hardly fading as he stuck his arm deep into the trunk in his search for honey.

Leon shook his head in disbelief at the other man's antics as he caught up to Arthur. "You're quiet," he said, turning the statement into an implied question in the way that only those who had known each other for a lifetime could. '_Are you all right?'_ were the unspoken words, '_Is there anything I can do?'_

"That's what happens after three days of listening to Gwaine," Arthur refused to acknowledge the unspoken questions. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, though his thoughts wandered back toward Camelot, and then to whatever lonely road Lancelot had taken Merlin down. Was the boy even alive still, or had he finally succumbed to the Dorocha's touch? Would he even know before they reached the Isle of the Blessed, or would he find out in the afterlife, when he stumbled across Merlin in the land of the dead? Grim thoughts, for a grim day. Even Gwaine's flailing at the bees he had upset failed to lighten his mood.

"You did the right thing, you know," Leon said, guessing the path of the prince's thoughts, "Merlin couldn't have continued with us."

"I should have saved him."

"If anyone can get Merlin back to Camelot, Lancelot can," Leon clapped Arthur on the shoulder before turning back to the rest of the men and leaving him alone with his thoughts.

And there was the rub. Leon meant well, knew how to offer encouragement the way men in arms always would, but in the end, the offering felt like a trite phrase and a pat on the back, though Arthur knew that was not the knight's intention. Merlin would have known the right thing to say, and even if he did not, he knew how to stay close without hovering, lending an ear to Arthur's questions and his silences. If he was not being rock stupid, Merlin was rock solid. The rock Arthur leaned against when he could not stand on his own, and right now, he had nothing to stand on. How could he face the end of this road when everything was falling around him?

* * *

The gray forest was growing dim when Lancelot halted the horses again. They had paused only once since the first little rill that morning, just long enough for Lancelot to eat some food and get a few mouthfuls of water into Merlin. After that, the sorcerer had fallen silent. He lost consciousness by mid-afternoon and for a desperate few minutes, when he could not hear Merlin breathing, Lancelot thought the boy had died. The knight would not soon forget his own thundering heart echoing in his ears while he tried to decipher whether the beat he had felt in Merlin's throat had been his own imagining, or whether Merlin's noble heart was still beating away. In the end, the sorcerer's renewed shivering told Lancelot what he needed to know.

He tied the horses off near the massive trunk of a fallen oak. Its bulk gave him a platform to help him lever Merlin out of the saddle until Lancelot had him cradled in his tired arms, rushing to lay him down by the river's edge. The rocky bank could not have been comfortable, and it certainly was not warm, but Merlin was too far gone to make a complaint. Lancelot pulled at his cloak, yanking it off himself and draping it over Merlin. He was so focused on his task he did not notice the sorcerer had moved at all until he heard a faint splash and looked down to find Merlin had dragged a hand into the water. A strange, silvery light rippled across Merlin's hand and up his arm like moonlight dancing on the river. "Trying to steal the moon in your sleep, Merlin?" he whispered as he tucked the wayward hand under the cloak.

"Lancelot. . ." A whisper echoed from behind him. He turned to find who had spoken and found a handful of water droplets falling _up_, pausing at eye level to spread into a quicksilver disk. A wavering face appeared in the water, her voice like the river's song as it roiled over the stones, "Lancelot. We bear you no harm. We wish only to help."

The knight's mouth dropped open as more of the disks appeared above the stream. "What are you?"

"We are Vilia. Spirits of the brooks and streams," The spirit smiled at him. Though he was unversed in the ways of magical creatures, Lancelot felt no spite or malice around the little spirits. Some of the tension flowed out of his shoulders as the Vilia continued, "The tear in the veil has upset the balance of the world. . . Good spirits as well as bad roam freely. But this perilous state cannot continue for long."

"Prince Arthur is riding for the Isle of the Blessed," Lancelot found himself saying. Their journey had never been much of a secret, but he had always tried to keep the Prince's business- when he knew it- close to the vest. "He intends to heal the Veil."

"He will need help from both of you."

Lancelot shook his head. They could not turn around now. He already doubted that Merlin would last the night; turning away from Camelot now would put the final nail in his coffin. "My friend is sick. I need to get him to Camelot."

"Merlin is stronger than you give him credit for. The young warlock has great power, and a future that has been written since the dawn of time. Do not worry. Even now, my sisters begin to heal him." He looked back at Merlin. The shimmering light from his hand had spread to the rest of his body in a shimmering cloud. In the darkness, Lancelot could not see if Merlin's color had improved but his breathing was even and the lines of pain smoothed away, letting him sink into a healing sleep. The knight settled back against the bank and let out the breath he did not know he had been holding since the spirit's appearance. "You are tired. You must rest," she continued.

"I need to find shelter," he glanced about, finally noticing that true night had fallen. The Dorocha would appear soon, and he had not even collected wood for a fire.

"You are safe here."

"The Dorocha. . ." he trailed off as weird, glimmering light appeared around them.

"We will stay here, and protect you through the night," the Vilia said before she wavered and burst into a cloud of light that floated upward, joining the other spirits as they coalesced into a rainbow-hued dome surrounding Lancelot, Merlin, the horses, and even the stream to its farther shore.

The knight lay back and stared up at light. He did not bother to quash the stupid grin that spread across his face or the laughter when it tumbled out. Or even the slightly hysterical giggling that followed the laugh. With only spirits and his sleeping friend for an audience, Lancelot did not have to play at being strong. This once, he could let his guard down, let himself react to the giddy relief flowing through him until it washed away the tension he had carried since they left Camelot. He laughed until he was light-headed, ignoring the wetness in his eyes when he raised his hands to rub them. A weariness that had nothing to do with his worries settled over Lancelot and he let himself fall asleep, content to let a host of spirits stand guard.

* * *

Guinevere had a simple errand to fulfill- collect more oil for the torches in the citadel's upper levels. All she needed to do was make it to one of the fortress's outer armories where the stores of oil were kept against an invasion, collect a night's worth to keep the torches burning in the royal chambers, and return. A simple task. One she would never complete.

Roiling cries from below caught her attention, and she paused by a window to find the cause. '_Did the Dorocha breach the fires around the walls?' _Granted, the torches the sentries carried were mere specks in the night and the curtain walls that surrounded the city of Camelot created a vast perimeter. There was only so much of the length the guards could do to protect the whole of the city against the Dorocha. But one attack, or even five should not have been enough to cause such a riotous sound.

It was not. Even as Gwen watched from above, the great gates of Camelot were closing against the torrent of villagers and other folk from the kingdom's outlying regions. They were the very people Arthur had promised to shelter and protect so long as the Dorocha haunted the nights. The soldiers pushed back against the press, using the butts of their halberds to push the villagers back and back until the gates finally closed with a deafening _boom_, dropping the courtyard into silence.

"How many will die because of this?" she whispered to no one as she turned and ran back to the citadel, her errand forgotten, brushing past knights, servants, and nobility alike. She ignored their stares and shouted protests as she brushed by, not stopping until she reached the wide hall where Gaius had set up a temporary infirmary to see to the injured and dying.

He did not notice when she breathlessly burst into the room, her eyes wide as she sought him out. Gwen heard the physician before she saw him. "We need more stretchers. And sheets. As many sheets as you can find," he barked at the other healers, their apprentices, guards, and anyone else who was mobile and unfortunate enough to fall under his gaze.

"Gaius!" she gasped, slipping through the crowd until she was at his side. "The guards were under orders to shut the gates at dusk."

"Whose orders?"

'_Who else?' _she wanted to shout, '_Who else is in charge of the city guard? Who else is enough of a coward to condemn the people?'_ Gwen bit back those words. "Lord Agravaine's," she said instead.

"But the people. . . ?"

"They have no shelter out there, no fires, nothing to protect them. Gaius, they'll be slaughtered. Isn't there something you can do to stop this?" Gwen clutched his arm.

"I'm afraid my voice doesn't carry as much weight with Lord Agravaine as it does with Arthur, Gwen, but I'm still a member of the Privy Council and I still have a voice to speak with. If Agravaine will not protect the people in Arthur's stead, we must do what we can in his place," Gaius said as he pried her fingers from his wrist and folded his arm around hers as though escorting her to a ball instead of a late-night session of the Privy Council.

The great hall was brightly lit that night with a torch in every sconce candles burning merrily in rows of candelabras while the chandelier above was ablaze with tiny flames. The abundance of fire brought Gwen a measure of comfort until she realized that while the council sat in warmth and safety, hundreds of innocents outside the walls waited anxiously for the dawn. She let go of Gaius's arm and took a step back.

Agravaine looked up when the doors closed, a jovial expression on his face. That bright smiles grated on Guinevere's nerves. "Gaius!" he said, as though welcoming an old friend to his table, "Have you come to join us?"

"Why have you closed the city gates?" The old healer demanded without preamble.

"We have limited resources, Gaius," Agravaine's tone dripped with condescension. "As much as I would like to, we simply cannot feed and water the entire kingdom," he continued, secure in the knowledge that his argument was the logical one. It had, after all, been enough to convince the council of the wisdom of shutting the people out.

"Surely the people have a right to be protected?"

Agravaine raised a placating hand, as though speaking to a petulant child. "I would be putting Camelot in danger. Starvation, disease. You of all people must understand, Gaius. The gates will remain shut until we are free of the evil that plagues us." The finality in his tone brooked no argument. He stared Gaius down until the physician's shoulders slumped and he took a step back. "Now. Where were we?" Agravaine's smile returned as he looked back at the councilmen.

Gwen looked with disbelief between Gaius and Agravaine. Surely the question of the gates- and the defenseless people outside- could not be brushed aside like an irritating fly? She clenched her jaw and took a deep breath. Where older, wiser heads could be swayed by reasoned arguments, the passion of youth might overcome said reasoning. "My lords. May I be granted permission to address the court?"

"Guinevere?"

Gwen stepped forward, keeping thoughts of Arthur firmly in her mind. Arthur facing Morgana's immortal army. Arthur rising up to meet the skeletal warriors. Arthur riding out to face a dragon. Always, he faced seemingly unbeatable odds, and always, he came home. If he could defeat a dragon, then Guinevere could face a few old men. "Prince Arthur taught me long ago that every citizen of Camelot is important. He would never stand by and let them suffer. He would help them if he could, and we must do the same."

"I feel the pain as much as you," Agravaine said, "But we don't have a choice. If we keep letting people in, our food will run out within days."

"You are wrong," her voice rang out through the sudden quiet.

Agravaine raised a dark brow at her impudence. He sat back in his chair like a serpent preparing to strike as he gestured for her to continue, "Perhaps you would enlighten me."

Guinevere's back straightened. Her chin came up. Gone was the wallflower girl of years past. Her time among Camelot's royal family had wound steel into her spine. "Those outside the gates are landowners. Farmers. For days, the refugees have been bartering their wares with the townsfolk in return for the safety of their hearths. They bring with them far more than they take."

"But how long before these wares run out?"

"Three days ago, Prince Arthur embarked upon a quest to rid us of these creatures. At worst, we have another three days before he reaches his goal." Guinevere willed herself to be brave as she stared down the prince's uncle. She took a breath, her next words measured and steady. "Or do you think he will fail?"

The corners of Agravaine's mouth lowered in a faint frown as he realized he had quite suddenly lost the argument to a maidservant. "Of course not," he said flatly.

A chorus of murmurs sounded around the table, and if Guinevere had to wager on it, she would have bet that most of the whisperers were on her side. "Sire, she's right," Geoffrey of Monmouth confirmed her assumption.

"Very well," Agravaine gave them all an insincere smile though his eyes would have sent them all to icy graves if they had that power. "Reopen the gates."

Guinevere lowered her eyes and stepped away, playing the part of the demure servant once more. She fought to keep from trembling as she stepped away and wondered at her own audacity, a silent prayer on the tip of her tongue as her thoughts turned to Arthur and his desperate mission somewhere in the wilderness. '_Please come home, Arthur. Come home and prove me right. Put Agravaine in his place. But please, just come home.'_


	8. Chapter 8

_Merlin opened his eyes to a gray and endless forest wreathed in mist, the bare branches of the trees reached up toward and disappeared into the fog. There was no path through the wood, just a carpet of sodden brown leaves underfoot to deaden the sound of his footsteps. "Hello?" he called. The sound did not travel as it should have, seeming to stop just past his lips as though the mist served as a barrier to keep the distance both hidden and silent. He walked in a slow circle, finding nothing but the spindly gray trees on all sides. "Where am I?" _

_He did not expect the air or the trees to answer him, but they did. "You are in the borderlands between the realm of the living and the land of the dead, Merlin."_

_He turned, and his breath caught in his throat. "Freya. . ." he whispered. _

_Her smile was the brightest thing he had ever seen. "Yes, Merlin, I'm here. When Morgana tore open the veil, the borderlands became confused and the spirits from one realm were allowed to pass to the other. And so we can see each other one more time."_

_Merlin did not stop the giddy laugh that tumbled from his lips. He reached out a tentative hand to caress her cheek, afraid that she would disappear at his touch. But she remained, warm and seemingly alive again as she leaned into his touch. "Freya," he said again, more confidently as he tucked her hair behind her ear. "Thank you. For the sword. We couldn't have re-taken Camelot without it. I. . . I'm sorry I didn't bring it back to the lake, but it felt right to set it into the stone. . . "_

_Her smile grew warmer, "It was well done. You will need it again one day, but Merlin," she pressed her hands against his chest and looked up at him, her eyes as deep as the Lake of Avalon itself, "Just for a moment, forget about the future. You will wake soon enough and have to turn your mind to it but for now. . . For now, just be with me."_

_For once, Merlin did as he was told, losing himself in the depths of her eyes, memorizing every perfect line of her face, and the clean scent of her skin. It was a dream and yet she felt as real as she had in the hours they had spent wrapped close together in their moments of stolen intimacy during those heady days of falling in love in the tunnels under Camelot. He could not say how long they held each other. Time did not seem to exist in this grey forest. He decided to pretend it was forever. "I'm so tired," he whispered at last._

"_I know," her smile held all the sweetness and sorrow of a thousand lives "But in these dark times, even the dead rest uneasily, Merlin. I wish I could give you the peace you have earned, but it is not your time to leave the mortal world."_

"_Stay with me." He wound her hair around his fingers, tightening his embrace as though she might suddenly turn to mist and blow away on the breeze. In his arms, she felt so small._

"_As long as I can. Dawn comes and it will break the enchantment. . ."_

She was gone when he opened his eyes again. The light was not her radiant spirit, but the dawn filtering through a strange grove of trees. He laid still, his body suddenly too solid, too mortal, and too weak to contain the aching loss of everything he might desire- to find peace and rest, to be with Freya again and let the mortal world write its own future. Had he not given enough to it? Except . . . the thought of Albion, the perfect kingdom, and Arthur, the Once and Future King, ruling over a golden age of peace.

Unless he made it to the Isle of the Blessed and died there because his servant was unwilling to push on for a few more days. Merlin let out a shuddering breath and lay still, letting the sunlight warm his face and sooth his hurts. No, he would not give up when the solution was so close. He slowly pushed himself up, clutching at the heavy wool cloak draped over him. Its owner lay not far away, fast asleep. A smile touched Merlin's lips. Of course it was Lancelot. Who else would give his cloak to a dying man? He pushed it away and stood, wincing at the stiffness in his bones and his aching head.

A drink of cold stream water settled his head and a walk along the water loosened tense muscles while he sorted through the past day. His memory of it was hazy, the clarity ending in the corridor with Arthur. After that, it faded in and out- the Dorocha, Arthur saying he was sending him back to Camelot, and the sun's meager warmth. Beyond that was cold and gray, one hour smearing into the next like ink in a waterlogged book. If his reckoning of time was correct, then two days' travel now separated him from Arthur. He would have to press his horse hard to catch up, but it could be done.

In the meantime, they would need to eat. He fashioned a long stick into a spear of sorts and stepped out into the stream. He was not an expert at this method of fishing, but he had managed to catch a few before Lancelot's voice echoed from behind him, its tone edging toward panic.

"Merlin? Merlin!"

"Shh!" He hushed the knight without looking back, aiming for another fish. A fish that he missed. Well. What he had already would have to do. He spun about on his rocky perch, fish in hand. **"**Breakfast?"

Lancelot stood on the bank, dumbfounded at the sight. "Merlin. Why, you-"

Merlin hopped from rock to rock until he reached dry ground. "What?" he asked innocently.

Lancelot look rather fishlike himself for a moment, with his mouth opening and closing in confusion. "You're meant to be... dying," he said, his brows knitting together in confusion at Merlin's state of good health.

"Sorry," Merlin shrugged. If there was one time someone was happy that Merlin was not doing what he should have been, that moment was now. Yet Lancelot just looked baffled. "Here," he handed the makeshift spear to the knight.

He took it, one questioning eyebrow raised. "What's that for?"

"You look like you're about to fall over," Merlin held back a smirk.

Lancelot looked at the stick and then back at Merlin. Then he took a swipe at the sorcerer, as though they were on the practice field back in Camelot. Not an angry swipe or one thrown in spite. Just a blow for horseplay.

Merlin dodged it easily, shaking his head in disapproval at the knight's slowness. "Yeah, not as quick as Arthur."

"Oh, yeah?"

Merlin's smirk disappeared as he caught a glimpse of the sun rising over the trees. It looked like both breakfast and horseplay would have to wait. Autumn days were too short to waste time better spent traveling. And hoping that two riders could catch up with five before it was too late. "Come on. We need to catch up with the others."

"No, you're going back to Camelot," Lancelot insisted.

"You might be," Merlin said as he hiked up the low hill toward the horses. If there was a benefit to his near-death experience, it lay in the fact that he had nothing to pack this morning.

"Merlin."

The sorcerer kept on walking toward the horses. "Say hello to Gaius for me," he called over his shoulder. Either Lancelot would realize Merlin was determined not to return to Camelot, or he would leave without the knight.

"Merlin!"

Merlin squared his shoulders before turning to face Lancelot, wishing that someone would take him at his word for once, instead of arguing against what needed to be done. "Arthur can't finish this without us," he said, keeping his voice even, his gaze firm until Lancelot finally relented.

"Arthur's right about you," the knight sad as he grabbed his cloak sword. "You don't ever do as you're told."

Merlin gave Lancelot a small smile. Whether Arthur had meant that as a complaint or a backhanded compliment, it was still true. He decided to take it as a compliment. "No," he said, "I don't. I doubt I ever will. Now we need to go. I know a shorter way to the Isle of the Blessed, but we're still far from where we need to be."

"You're a wonder, Merlin," Lancelot shook his head, "Yesterday you were dying. Today you're ready to ride a thousand leagues if need be. Will you never stop?"

Merlin's smile turned wistful. If he had to ride to Hell and beyond to protect Arthur, he would do it. "No. Not ever."

* * *

It was too early for Agravaine to be there. Too early by half, and he had no news to offer Morgana. Still, there was the matter of the mouthy serving girl and . . . He had to see her again. While Arthur sat the throne as Prince Regent, there had been few chances for him to leave the lack-witted prince's side. But now, with Arthur on his noble suicide mission, the kingdom in disarray, and Agravaine himself serving as regent, he could do as he willed.

Morgana did not look up from the fire when he entered, giving him the chance to study her profile. She looked just like her mother in this light, like Vivienne, with her delicate chin and high cheekbones; the same fall of midnight-black hair and ivory skin. Vivienne had been regarded as one of the great beauties in the five kingdoms. She gave her daughter the same loveliness. And the same magic.

Beauty and power. How could a man like him resist? Like a moth to the fire, he had been drawn to her since the moment they met. Men might call him mad for loving a woman young enough to be his daughter, but kings had married girls young enough to be their granddaughters; they had no room to judge. He had loved Vivienne from afar in his youth Younger son that he had been, he was only offered the hands of noblemen's distant cousins and illegitimate daughters. Women like Vivienne hardly glanced at him. But he had learned. Serve a master well, and he- or she- would be grateful. If he helped Morgana win her kingdom back, how grateful might she be? "My lady?"

"What news of Camelot?"

"As we planned," he moved to the brazier in part to warm his hands. And to have a reason to move closer to her. "The city is falling into rack and ruin."

She finally deigned to look up at him. "And Arthur?"

"Last we heard he had made it past Daelbeth." The report had come a few hours ago, far faster than any courier could have brought it on horseback. Morgana's enchanted ravens saw to it their news came quickly.

Morgana's eyes narrowed as she looked back into the fire. "Will we never be rid of him?" her voice softened to a low hiss.

"Patience, my lady," he said soothingly, "Even if he makes it to the isle, the outcome will still be the same."

"Then what brings you here so early?" Morgana finally looked at him, her eyes half shuttered as though she had just woken from a long sleep. Agravaine wondered if she had been aware of anything he had said until now. He knew little enough of magic. Had he interrupted some visionary trance? "Something's wrong."

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He felt suddenly foolish. Yes, Guinevere had made a fool of him last night, swayed the council against him for a moment, but was a buzzing fly like that truly worth bothering a High Priestess over? "A minor irritant," Agravaine finally said, "Guinevere takes it upon herself to speak out against me." He waved a hand as though brushing away an insect.

"She's dangerous," Morgana answered, her eyes narrowing at the mention of the serving girl.

Her answer surprised him. Guinevere? Dangerous? Certainly Arthur was infatuated with the girl, but it was a passing fancy. Bring a true princess to court, and surely the girl would be forgotten in a moment. "She's a servant. A spirited one perhaps, but a servant nonetheless."

"No. You're wrong. I have dreamt the future, and it, that servant sits upon my throne," Morgana spat. Her eyes grew wild for a moment. If she had suddenly hissed like an angry cat, it would not have surprised Agravaine. "I would rather drown in my own blood than see that day."

"Then we must make sure it never comes," he said quickly.

"I couldn't agree more. We must make sure she never sees another dawn."

The malice in Morgana's smile sent a chill through him. Like a moth to a flame, he had been, and until she regained her throne, Agravaine realized he had best walk carefully lest she burn him along with the others in her way. "What should I do?"

The priestess turned back to the fire. Her intent gaze eventually defocusing until he though she had forgotten he was there. "Tonight," she said at last, "Do what you must to ensure that Guinevere is out just after true night falls. And then . . .? The Dorocha will finish her quickly enough. No questions, no accusations. Just another tragic victim." She caught his gaze, her eyes lidded. "Fail me in this, and the Dorocha will seem merciful compared to what I will do to you."

* * *

"Where is Arthur?"

It was the first thing the king had said all day, and his rasping voice startled Guinevere. She replaced the baubles she had been dusting and turned back toward Uther, straightening the blanket around his shoulders. "I am unsure," she said. It was the truth. Gwen did not know precisely where Arthur was, only where he was going. And she knew for sure that Uther did not need to know that bit of information.

"Where is he?" Uther insisted.

Gwen cast about for a suitable answer to mollify the king. Strange, how similar it was to appeasing a grouchy child. "The prince is on a hunting trip, sire."

"When will he be back?" he looked beseechingly up at her as though he wanted her to produce Arthur out of thin air.

"In a few days," she put as much assurance into her voice as she could. "Is there something you need?" Whatever it was that Uther wanted, he did not say. He fell silent again, his gaze drifting back toward the window and the grey sky beyond. Gwen sighed as she straightened his things. As much as the man had done to her, and to her family, his fall into this lowly state moved her to pity. And perhaps that was her revenge for her father's death- to survive, and feel pity for the man she had once feared so much. It would be easy to revel in the notion of it if Uther's ailment did not break Arthur's heart on a regular basis. She shook her head to chase away those thoughts and smoothed the blanket again before stepping toward the door.

"Your devotion to the king is most impressive," Agravaine appeared out of the shadows like a wraith. He smiled charmingly, but Gwen could not help but sense the oily film that lay under that smile. "There is something I would like to discuss. I wish to apologize. Yesterday, I feel I let the prince down. I am grateful that you spoke out."

Gwen felt her cheeks flush and chided herself for it. Flattery was one of many tools that politicians used to worm their way into another's favor. She knew it, had seen it with Morgana and Arthur. She thought herself immune to it, too, but for the apology. Noble men hated to use the words 'apologize' and 'I'm sorry'. "I did not mean to be discourteous, my Lord."

"Oh, you weren't. Not in the least," he gave her a warm smile. It was a far cry from the condescension he had given her at the council meeting the night before. "Gwen, if you would permit," he paused, unsure of how to continue for a moment, "I would be grateful to seek your advice. You know the people."

"I'm not sure I- "

Agravaine cut her off, his smile widening. There was something of a chuckle in his voice. "If nothing else, I know that you will be honest with me. It's not appropriate to talk now, but, um, perhaps this evening you could come to my chambers. Please, Guinevere. These are dark times. I am going to need help if I'm to guide us through them. "

Gwen felt her resolve waning, as though she had drunk too much of a heady wine. "Very well," she heard herself saying.

"Thank you," Agravaine's smile turned bright as a little boy's, and he nearly bowed to her before slipping through the door, dodging Gaius on the way out.

Gaius gave her a bewildered glance. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes. He wishes to speak with me later. I think he means to seek my counsel," she said, still a bit drunk on Agravaine's regard. It was one thing to have Arthur's attention- he was in love with her, and she with him. It was quite another to sway both the council and Agravaine within the span of two days. Her smile dimmed only slightly at Gaius's skeptical look. "What is it?"

"I don't mean to be a gloomy rain cloud, Gwen, but I have been part of the court of Camelot for many years. Flatterers such as Agravaine are very good at wrapping people around their fingers to get what they want. You may not notice it when you watch Arthur deal with the nobility, but he has had years of practice in keeping empty compliments from going to his head." The physician took her hand in both of his, his fingers tightening reassuringly around hers. "It is one thing to watch flatterers at work when you are at the fringe of the court and beneath the notice of men like him. It is quite different to be in the midst of it and become their target."

Her brows knit together in a faint frown. "Do you think I don't have the sense to keep my head on straight?"

He chuckled and patted her hand, "No, Gwen. You're a capable young woman and a force to be reckoned with. Arthur would not have given his heart to anyone lacking a will to match his own. I just want you to be careful. You pricked Agravaine's pride in the council session last night, and it is not a slight he will forget quickly."

"Then I shall collect all my wits to hand and be sure to keep a civil tongue in my mouth, Gaius. But with Arthur away, someone must keep the people's welfare in mind. If Agravaine will not do it, then I will continue to remind him- and the rest of the council- of their responsibilities."

* * *

Grey clouds above, grey mist all around them, and spindly grey trees on all sides. Arthur felt like they were traveling through an endless dream world built by the spirits to thwart their quest and send them into endless circles until the kingdom collapsed around them. He finally called a halt in a stand of silver birch trees. It was not a proper shelter, just a circle in the midst of the forest, but they had ridden for hours without catching sight of anything better and the gloom was deepening. Night was falling.

They made camp quickly, divvying up the tasks of fire building and cooking with hardly a word. Arthur assigned himself the first watch, removing himself to the edge of the circle of trees to claim the space of his own thoughts. In one more day, they would reach the Isle of the Blessed. One more day before he gave himself to the spirits, dying so that his people could live. '_It's not fair . . .' _a childish voice within whined, and he could only half-heartedly disagree. Life was not fair. He knew that, and yet that childish part of himself could only think about how he wanted to dance with Guinevere one more time and see her smile; he wanted to joke with Merlin and hear the idiot call him a prat again; he wanted to talk to his father. He wanted to do anything but walk with open arms to his death.

_"_See anything?" Elyan appeared at his shoulder. Arthur turned his startled jump into a negative. No, he had not seen anything, and no, he was not afraid. He hoped Elyan was convinced of it. Arthur was not. "Do you know what we're going to face on the Isle of the Blessed?" He nodded, refusing to look at Elyan. The knight might see the fear creeping into his eyes. "Do you want to tell me?"

"The burden is mine, and mine to bear alone."

"Look around, Arthur," Elyan clapped him on the shoulder, turning the prince just enough so he could see the other knights gathered around the fire, talking and laughing quietly. "We would fight a thousand armies with our bare hands for you. You're never alone. We stand together." They seemed to feel the weight of Arthur's gaze upon them, one by one looking up to catch his gaze. Such faith shone in their eyes- faith in him, and faith in each other. He was not sure he had earned such trust, and yet they gave it all the same, his Knights of the Round Table. "C'mon. I'll take over," Elyan urged him toward the fire, "You need some rest."

_'I don't want to rest. I want to live,' _he swallowed hard, pushing the childish voice away. He was the Prince of Camelot, meant to live and die for the good of his people. Few men got what they wanted in life, and he was no different. Guinevere was lost to him now, safe at home in Camelot. Merlin was likely dead, giving his life to save Arthur. He could not have the ones he wanted close to him in his last days, but Elyan was right. His knights were there, and they all stood together. "Elyan," he said softly, waiting until the other man looked back at him. They had the same eyes, he and Guinevere. Arthur smiled at that little quirk of fate. "Thank you."


End file.
